Tales of the League
by V-rcingetorix
Summary: A little ficlet on one of my favorite League of Legends characters. What else do the Champions get up to during a match?
1. Matchmaker

The card flickered around his fingers, innate magic throwing tiny sparks that didn't burn. Whether it was due to the inherent skill he possessed, or the power coursing through the thin pieces of paper, the end effect was the same: a hypnotic blur. Tricks were his stock in trade, doing what no one else could, just because he could.

Twisted Fate smiled across the open ground. His opponent had a similar look, albeit more carnivorous. Like him, it bespoke confidence. Skill. Experience. She would be a difficult opponent.

A distant horn boomed across the glade, warning of the miniature armies imminent arrival. Fate, still relaxed against the tower's cold stone side, tipped the edge of his hat to his opponent.

Katarina, strolling with lithe grace, smirked in response, flipping one of her innumerable knives in a return salute.

Dozens of feet, smacking into the ground with eagerness, made their presence known. The appearance of crimson hoods, led by red-hued cloaks warned Fate of the approaching force. To his own rear, a matching horde of minions in dark blue charged to the attack.

A scowl marred his handsome face for a moment. The golem-style infantry were so _predictable_ , so incapable of independent thought, charging into battle with as little concept of survival as the ant swarms he'd seen in his youth. Such an existence was anathema, was downright _wrong_ in every sense of the word.

 _Best get rid of it then._ The familiar thought arced through his mind for only a moment before Fate pushed away from the tower.

On the other side, Katarina had already begun her approach, tossing one of her blades in a gyrating path that wounded an entire column. Her victorious grin provoked Fate into responding in kind, but in a more controlled fashion.

Fate flicked one of his cards, letting it spin from his hand. It hardened in mid-flight, striking a soldier and leaving a gash between armor plates. A second card spun past the injured one, slicing into another soldier. More flew from his grip, flying through the air, not quite like butterflies but not like knives either.

When the timing felt right, Fate tossed a handful of cards, the flock converging on a single red-robed minion. The cards converged, impacting with a single burst of light, ending the artificial creation's short life with a miniature light show.

Twisted Fate directed a toothy smile to his foe.

Their duel continued, he avoiding her approach at all opportunities and she sidestepping his every attack. The dance they followed was almost intimate, watching each other's moves as closely as a married couple; unconsciously mirroring each other's aggressive stance.

Fate landed a hit on Katarina's arm, prompting a retaliatory flurry of blades. None touched his hat, making him smile despite the new lacerations along his flank. While he and Katarina were ostensibly on opposing sides, they were … professionally polite to each other. She didn't touch the hat, and he refrained from making comments about her chosen vocation. Besides, such an acquaintance was … profitable.

He smirked, ducking as another blade flashed past his shoulder, winking at her as a blindingly yellow card erupted from his fingertips. Her eyes widened in recognition a moment too late as the card exploded in an impressive display of light and sound, stunning her movements. Fate pushed the attack, flinging his attack hard and fast, overwhelming her defenses until the effect wore off.

Katarina vanished in a puff of smoke, reappearing closer to the massive defense turret further away from him. The minions, seemingly angered at the damage their champion had suffered, charged forwards to avenge her retreat.

Fading back, Fate touched the brim of his hat, a tacit farewell as Katarina vanished to replenish her reserves. As she did so, he touched the runed portion of his collar, alerting Rengar that the path lay open before him.

It was silent work for a few moments. Far to the south, he could hear the characteristic noise of Jayce's Mercury hammer, accompanied by the tell-tale energy burst of a successful charge by Vi. Fate shook his head; he'd seen those two flirting incessantly enough times to be glad they were far from him. What the two lacked in subtlety, they more than made up for in creativity.

The far scream of a dying dragon drew a wince. If the dragon had been slain by his own team, the power it contained would aid his attack; if not, then Katarina would be pushing the advantage as soon as possible.

With a start, Fate realized he'd gotten too close to the defensive tower. Minions on either side of him were falling to its runic blasts, identified as the major threats due to their numbers. Those numbers were almost down to nothing … and Katarina was leaping from the tower's upper story, a predatory grin on her face.

Fate let the card fall from his hands, flicking a new one into his hand. It took a long moment to work, the magic charging up to transport him away. As the energy pulsed, he could feel it resonate with the other champions in the area, highlighting them like beacons.

There was a sharp sting as Katrina landed almost on top of him, one blade cutting a deep gash. Then, the magic took hold, and her look of glee accompanied him as he faded – along with the image of her licking the edge of her clean knife evocatively. Both actions made him squirm; of all the foes he'd faced, Katarina was the most playful – much like himself.

* * *

When he'd returned to the battle, it was time to begin working.

Fate managed to deflect several blows from his opponent, before catching her attention. He gestured to a rolled parchment, tied with leather thongs just under the edge of his vest.

One of her eyebrows raised, inquisitively. They had made many exchanges in the past, and were regarded as black market specialists amongst their peers. Not that anyone confirmed it, or had proof of it. Certain individuals were – dismissive of such a practice. Detective Caitlyn, for one.

Fate considered it a question of simple economics flow. Legal objects were desired by multiple parties, but were in short supply. As an ex-riverman, Fate had many contacts spread across Runeterra, from Zaun and Demacia to the Great Barrier. He even had a couple links to the Frejlord, always eager for spices of the far south.

Katarina, on the other hand, had extensive contacts within the Noxian government. Licenses, maps, the occasional payment casket … all were at her fingertips. Her assignments took her across Runeterra as well, but not in the same places as Fate had traveled.

Together, the two had access to almost anything anyone wanted, and could get it. Such was the beginning of their partnership, in the early days.

Now, however, Fate had a potential object that Katarina would want, personally. They would seldom speak to each other of their business, but after so many sessions in combat, communication was achieved without words. It helped, of course, that the common trade language of the rivermen contained a sign-language component. Between the two of them, it had been raised to an art form, hiding their intentions from even the most observant of champions.

He flicked another card, swinging the arm wide so that his cloak lifted fully away from his side, demonstrating the length of the scroll. The height of his arm gave an approximate value, great or small.

In return, Katarina palmed a secondary blade from her hip, right next to a series of pouches along her belt. Her fingers touched one of the leather objects, lingering on its surface just a fraction of a second longer than needed.

Fate grinned in response. She knew his language.

Twice more, they closed ranks, she slicing at his body with her daggers, he gliding around her movements. One time her arm passed so close to his body, he stumbled, surprising her with the unexpected contact. They both withdrew, but charged once more, this time her footwork allowing him to seize the pouch.

Seconds later, they returned to their respective bases, using the opportunity to stash their treasures.

Fate had his gold, adequate compensation for the difficulties he'd undergone. Some of it had been rather difficult, speaking with public figures in private without being seen. Katarina? She had a signed poster of Garen, Defender of Demacia. With a date and location hidden on the border.

The next time Fate saw Katarina on the field, she threw him a grateful wink. The political situation between Demacia and Noxus was volatile at best, and both Garen and Katarina were highly visible figures. They had to rely on go-betweens to arrange their little meetings. A service Fate was more than happy to provide.

Maybe he was just a soft-hearted fool. But – it was impossible for anyone to do what he could. To arrange things that would rock Runeterra to its core, yet prevent it from happening at the same time. The joy of getting away with a job, pulling a successful heist, was like a fine vintage. Savored whenever possible. That was his fate, twisted though it be. And he liked it.

* * *

 **A/N: Just an idea that occurred to me whilst fighting a chapter in Unwelcome Discovery. Oddly enough, it sparked ideas I used to finish said chapter ... which should be up fairly soon. The rewrite is going on right now.**

 **Happy New Year!**


	2. You Call Braum!

Braum's shield snapped left, warding off a powerful scything blast from Caitlyn's long-gun, then swooped low, planting its base against the ground. He braced himself, planting his broad shoulder against the shield's smooth back, and lodged his feet on the ground. The shield responded, growing heavier as if the glaciers of his home rose to his defense.

A massive blast, compliments of a small package from a mentally-strange yordle, struck his shield like a cannon shot. That was actually something he'd felt before, courtesy of some of the League's more nautically inclined champions. Now, as then, his shield held proof, letting the power wash around him.

He glanced down at the small Frejlord archer, glued to his back. "See? Nothing to worry about."

Ashe flashed him a quick grin, and darted sideways, launching a ballistic attack, forcing Caitlyn to fall back.

"Hah!" Braum gathered his legs, remembering the mountain goats he'd herded during his youth, and leaped. He landed not fifteen feet from the fleeing sharpshooter, and acted. His shield slid back, then forward, sending a super-cooled gust. The moisture in the air sublimated into ice directly on her armor, chilling the opposing champion. Her movements slowed, allowing Ashe to launch a rapid-fire combination that brought down the Piltover detective.

"Well done!" he bellowed approvingly. With quick, practiced blows, he stunned more of the minions for his partner. The bounty for each allowed access to better equipment, but only to the one that actually dismantled the small golem. With his shield and a share of the kills, he could wait, but the little archer needed the best in order to compete with her counterpart.

"Be right back," Ashe called. She went on tip-toe, kissing Braum's cheek. "You're the best!"

"Of course," Braum chortled; that was obvious. Movement caught his eye, and he lunged – slamming the diminutive form of another yordle into the rocky wall. Teemo – he could see the characteristic blowgun – squeaked, dodging away and vanishing into the shrubs.

Ashe, quick on her feet as always, fired a wide spread. The ice arrows stopped at one point, giving Braum just enough information; he launched another freezing blast from his shield, revealing the target for a second rapid-fire burst. This time, it wasn't quite enough and the tiny being escaped beyond the shielding bulk of a threatening tower.

"Nice one," Ashe commented before invoking her recall command. "Stay safe out here." The last thing to vanish was her smile.

[Alistair Ales]

Braum hefted his tankard at the friendly minotaur that ran the tavern counter. The gentle giant's namesake was a popular place for the off-duty champions, boasting imported beverages from across Runeterra. The charity work Alistair had accomplished had benefited the tavern beyond most expectations; everyone wanted to be known as an official contributor for the business.

For some reason, no one else ever asked for goat's milk, despite the fact that he knew it came from the very goats on his home farm. Odd.

"Braum." A cold voice barked at him from behind his back.

He took a long swig from his tankard, enjoying how the cold drink soothed away the cares of the day. Even Sejuani's irritating anger couldn't ruin what he had; a taste of home, served in one of the most respected establishments in Runeterra no less!

Braum set the container down, and spun to face the Frejlord chieftainess with a smile. "Sejuani! Life is good, no?"

"No," she glared at him, folding her arms across her chest. "Why do you persist on helping the weak, Braum? It only makes you look foolish!"

Across the hall, Braum could see Ashe scowl at the more warlike leader. Before he could speak, she called back across the room. "Maybe it's because the only one that looks foolish here is you?"

Braum sighed as Sejuani turned her back on him, already spouting a furious diatribe. It always became a shouting match between the two, especially whenever they came in after a fight. Sometimes they had even been on the same side, but they inevitably ended their dispute with verbal battle scars deeper than any wound. It hadn't happened yet, but Braum was confident the two would work out their differences eventually; they both loved their people and would do anything to protect them.

"Excuse me," a small voice, somewhere around Braum's knee piped up, "have you seen my bear Tibbers?"

Breaking into a wide smile, Braum reached down, picking up Annie Hastur, settling her onto his lap. "Annie! You've grown so much! Where is your pet bear?"

The child smiled a gap-toothed grin, "Tibbers was getting dirty, so I put him in the wash. Have you seen him?"

Braum pretended to think, playing up the act until the little girl couldn't help but giggle. "Hmm, I _think_ I saw a bear in the washline. Do you think he could be looking for you, perhaps in the kitchens?"

The child's dark eyes widened. "Oh – I didn't think of that! Thank you Mister Braum!" She hugged as far around his chest as she could reach, and then hopped down. A smoking gray aura surrounded her form as she began to run.

"Annie?" Braum called in a mildly disapproving voice.

She spun, looking back guiltily. He gestured at her, and waved his arm around himself like a cloud of mosquitos was trying to visit.

"Oops, sorry!" the haze vanished, and she ran out the door.

Braum smiled. "Ah, children. Such a joy to watch."

A scream turned his attention back to the verbal clash. It had moved to the corner Ashe had chosen, but the … vocal talents of both were well over the acceptable volume. Customers were beginning to clear a space around the two, and the flash of gold caught his eye as Twisted Fate flickered his hand on a tabletop.

Braum returned to his tankard, draining the last of the drink in one long swallow.

It broke his heart, to see the two Frejlord chieftains quarrel such. They had so much to offer; one commanded respect by her prowess in battle, the other inspired her people by sharing everything she had. If the two were to cease their squabbling, the Frejlord would truly become a power, easily an equal to Demacia or Noxus.

But, perhaps it was not meant to be, not in this lifetime. Perhaps the arguments raised by the two would inspire the next generation of their followers to a higher plane of existence, where Winter's Claw and Avarosa would dwell in peace ….

A particularly vicious description of ancestral paternity made even his mustache droop. On the one hand, Sejuani had a point; Ashe was very kind-hearted, hating to think the worst of anyone. That was why he liked her; she believed in the best of everyone, like himself.

Unlike her however, he did not trust Lissandra, ally to the Avarosan tribe. Something about her just made his blood run cold, and he wasn't sure why. Sejuani made no secret of her dislike for the Ice Witch – or anyone at all for that matter, but Ashe refused to listen.

As if sensing his sadness, a tiny, furry presence made itself known, softly rubbing Braum's leg. A poro, the furred creatures found throughout the land. They always had liked him, following whenever they heard his voice, but staying a safe distance when battle began.

"Ho there," Braum gently extended his palm. The poro looked up at him with trusting eyes, and then scurried into his hand. It quivered, making the purring sound that tickled his pride.

Braum stretched his other arm, feeling a swelling sense of happiness when the poro simply followed his progress without a hint of fear. One of the snack trays held a whole-grain roll, coated in a caramelized topping, studded with honey-baked nuts. Braum wasn't sure where the minotaur obtained them, but the tasty pastry was one of his favorites, and a treat for the small poros.

The poro trilled its excitement when Braum snagged the roll, bouncing in place as it approached. It practically leaped onto the roll, vigorously making its pleasure known. Within moments, the sticky caramel had slicked back the poro's upper lip with a brown coating, similar to his facial hair.

"Enjoy little one," Braum stroked the creature's velvety-soft back. "Stay safe out there, eh?"

Trilling agreement, the poro demonstrated its adaptive camouflage capabilities, turning the fur on its muzzle into a facsimile of Braum's mustache.

Braum laughed heartily, "Very good! That looks good on you!"

He smoothly lowered his hand, letting the poro drag its treat away. The feeling of eyes on him caused Braum to look up, catching Alistair eyeing him approvingly.

The sound of a hand impacting flesh forced the jovial mood from Braum in an instant. Sejuani had apparently decided a demonstration of physical superiority was needed, and Ashe had paid the price.

Across from Braum, Alistair sighed – a gusting breath only a being of his massive size could generate. He caught Braum's eye and nodded towards the Frejlord Chieftainesses. "Braum, would you mind?"

Braum looked down, seeing the mournful, pleading eyes of the poro – still above the glorious mustache – fixed on him as well.

"Ach … all right," he stood, looking downward slightly to meet the minotaur's eyes. "You know they will start again once more soon?"

Alistair rumbled, deep in his chest. "If I try breaking it up, they'll have broken bones. They respect _you_."

"Ashe respects you," Braum countered weakly, "but … for a friend."

"Thank you." Alistair reached behind the counter, "I'll have something special waiting when you get back."

Braum had already moved off though, deftly weaving his path through the crowd. By the time he reached the loud corner, Sejuani had already drawn a knife, and Ashe was in a fighting crouch.

"Ladies, please!" Braum pushed his way past a somewhat tipsy Gragas, reaching their table. "The night is young, and we have many stories yet to tell, no?"

Both of the women turned a glare on him that would have withered a field of corn. Undeterred, he came closer, extending both arms in a placating gesture. "Please, leave your quarrel at the door. What say you to a round on me?"

Ashe's eyes turned contemplative, then somewhat ashamed as they took in the audience watching. She lowered her head. "You're right Braum, my apologies for my behavior." She turned to Sejuani, "perhaps a later time would be better to resolve this?"

The Winter's Claw leader spat at Ashe's feet. "Fine, coward. Anything to avoid a fight, but I didn't expect this of _you_ Braum."

Braum smiled cheerfully, "I'm just here to enjoy a drink with some friends. First we fight, then we eat."

"Bah," Sejuani seized the tumbler she'd abandoned in the heat of the argument. "Your courage lies solely in your shield. Without it you're just a weak pretender. Drinks are on you tonight? Fine!" she emptied her tumbler on Braum's head, having to almost jump to reach that high, but making the motion look like a predatory swipe.

Braum smelled the fragrant liquid spill down his face, feeling it soak the fabric of his baldric. Without complaint, he pulled the shirt over his head, using it to wipe off the offending substance from his head. With his face so obscured, he missed the appreciative glances from several members of the audience. In the back, someone swore as a bet was cashed.

As Braum made no move to attack, Sejuani's smile grew more vicious. "Pathetic."

He just shook his head and turned away, job accomplished. The faint hiss of a fast-moving fist warned him, like the stupid but aggressive blade-shrike that had tried taking his sheep. The beasts no longer were capable of doing so, after he'd been driven to finally destroy them.

Braum reached back and up, catching Sejuani's fist in his palm, closing it inside his fist. Slowly, he turned back, a half-smile on his face.

For her part, Sejuani wore a shocked look on her face, seemingly unable to withdraw her hand.

"Get her Braum!" a hoarse shout came from the audience; Tryndamere's voice.

Braum tightened his grip, squeezing slowly. Sejuani's face whitened, but refused to bend even an inch. He had to respect that; if she were publicly humiliated, she would lose the regard of her tribe … yet she had tried attacking someone unawares, and from the back.

Mind made up, Braum's other hand darted forwards, seizing Sejuani's hauberk below the collar and lifted. Her light weight made it easy for him to raise her to his eye level, staring into her blue eyes, smiling the entire time.

"That wasn't very nice," he chided, "What sort of leader punches from behind, eh?"

She glared impotently. It was obvious she could have tried striking him with her other hand, or used her metal-tipped boots against his bare chest … but the smiling invitation to do her worst seemed to dispel that notion.

Finally, he released her hand, after one final squeeze. "I have no shield here, I need no shield when I am among friends. But," he rotated so Sejuani's back faced the main door, "I did not always have my shield."

Braum reared back, then forward, striking Sejuani's helmet-less skull with his own. At the same moment, he relaxed his grip so she hit the ground stumbling to keep her balance. The momentum he'd give her was relentless, and the lack of poise granted by her abrupt re-introduction to the ground prevented any traction.

The end result was Sejuani trying to stay on her feet while tottering backwards. Her back hit the swing doors of the tavern, breaking the last of her efforts and spilling her on her backside.

Rough cheering broke out in the hall, and Braum could hear the wealthy sound of gold exchanging hands from Twisted Fate's direction.

Braum smiled at the crowd, and waved once at Alistair before heading to the back exit. The way things turned out, Sejuani could claim survival against overwhelming odds, and Ashe would know there were friends that had her back. Alistair hadn't been forced to discipline customers, and a poro had attained its heart's desire.

He frowned, just outside the door. Something was missing, what was it?

"Mister Braum! I found Tibbers!"

There, just to one side approached Annie, holding the little stuffed toy her pet bear sometimes masqueraded as being. Her eyes were shining with happiness, and if he could assign emotion to a stuffed toy, it would have looked content to be in her arms.

The broad smile broke out once more. Yes, life was good.

* * *

 **A/N: _So some of the stories here keep running through my head ... why not publish them when I have the time? This one is a bit of fluff, but I like how it turned out. Braum is one of my favorite champions, a good guy that is deceptively simple - and possibly obtuse on purpose._**

If you have any champions you'd like to see me write, just leave a review or PM me, and I'll see what I can do. See profile for my current activities, should you be so inclined.


	3. Tower Observations

"There he goes again."

Silence drifted across the tower top, slower than a tortoise, yet faster than the greatest invention from Piltover's finest laboratories.

"Mhm," a voice answered.

Distant explosions flickered on the horizon, illuminating the deep haze that always surrounded the battlefield. A flash of lightning streaked from the clouds above to the earth below, ending in a victorious howl.

"It's kind of annoying, really. He has much to be proud of, but … really? _For Demacia_? Why not: _for a bag o' money_ , or mebbe _for a beef sandwich_?"

Dry chuckling met his words. " _You_ are asking _me_ about proclaiming loyalty in battle?"

Twisted Fate pondered her words. "Mmm. Point; it _is_ nice trick … but I doubt Garen needs to be so dishonorable to prove his loyalty … or you for that matter."

The dark loomed closer, threateningly so. He just smiled, stretching back with both arms behind his head. "Come on now, do ya'think anyone would actually take a contract on the deadliest assassin in Noxus?"

Lack of a response made his grin expand. People skills, that was his bread and butter, and he was _good_ at it. Most didn't look beyond the flashy cards, or the stylish clothing he preferred … which meant they weren't looking at _him_. She, however, did see past the trappings – and that made her dangerous. Attractively so.

A high-pitched scream pierced the air, bringing his attention back to the south. "Sounds like Lux got another kill. I wonder though …" he let the words roll off his tongue, "she seems a bit more – sensuous than her brother, no?"

Katarina's voice was dry again, amused. "You'd think so. Are there any women in the Legends Guild you _don't_ think are attractive?"

"Illaoi," Fate answered without pause. "Jinx isn't that pretty to begin with, and Zyra is just too poisonous for me. Oriana has a lot o' things going for her, but being metal is a big drawback."

"Anyone else?" her voice was sweetly innocent, yet carried an undertone he knew all too well.

Fate grinned; she should have known better than to try bluffing _him._ "Kennen, I'm not rightly sure she _is_ a girl, and Karma is a b – " another explosion, this time near the tower they occupied, interrupted him. He rose to his feet, smoothly scooping up the hat from where it rested beneath his head.

Below, Ezreal and Lux fired magical bursts against the tower. They made an interesting pair; both extraordinarily good looking, blonde and commanding the basic forces of the universe at their fingertips.

Fate watched them dance around each other, one entrapping oncoming minions in coruscating bands of light while the other blasted them apart. Order and chaos, weaving together on the loom of fate – he liked that phrase.

"Morgana incoming," Katarina announced from her position on the other side of the tower.

Fate nodded absently. "It ever strike you as … odd?"

One elegantly sculpted eyebrow raised in response. "Besides your sense of humor?"

"Part o' my charm." Fate jerked his chin towards the light-haired duo below. "I meant Lux. All that 'In the name of Demacia I will punish you' … I reckon she says it a lot. Don't forget the leather, an' her habit of carrying a stick everywhere .…"

Katarina's mouth quirked. "I would assume Ezrael knows how to handle a bit of potential danger, Fate. You don't approve of a woman in leather?"

 _Danger!_ Twisted Fate's already high sense of self-preservation kicked into exponentially elevated levels. His mouth smirked at the concept. _Top-rated leather-clad assassin asking if you just insulted her!_

"On the _right_ woman – no," he smiled at the shadowed individual. "On Lux … she's a child, especially when compared to another lady I could mention."

Husky laughter emanated from the darkest corner; Fate forced himself to not jump, he hadn't seen her move. "You always had a silver tongue, haven't you?"

"I'm a simple card player, with maybe a little luck." Fate spread his hands expressively, "How 'bout you?"

Another booming retort made the tower shake, dropping dust from the tower's rafters. Battle cries floated in through the window, describing the fight beneath. The tower itself quivered as the powerful blasts emanating from its transceiver gained strength; someone was confident of victory, at least at this stage.

He glanced through the opening, scanning the ground below. A hulking figure swung an anchor, hammering at the lithe form chipping away at the structural integrity of the tower, even as energy cascaded on his shielded form.

"Nautilus," Fate noted. "Pullin' out all the stops on this one; has to be more – there they are."

From deeper within the mist, more warriors appeared; joining Lux as she held the shield protecting her partner. A tall, broad-shouldered figure wielding a two-handed blade sprang past the titanic defender, striking a fierce blow at the tower's base, knocking away one of the runestones reinforcing its width. At the same time a vapor cloud smoked into existence, obscuring the form of another assassin, diving into its depths.

"They are enthusiastic," Katarina agreed. She peered around his shoulder, studying the battlefield. "Caitlyn will be in the brush," she pointed, "waiting for a shot."

Fate glanced at the tall grass, studying how it lay. "I wouldn't try my luck with that," he agreed. "But there's still one man missin'."

The thunder of approaching footsteps approaching from the other direction caught their attention. A large figure, armed and armored with glistening steel bore down on the melee below.

"There's backup for the Reds, but they're still outnumbered … maybe a split?"

Katarina nodded at the horizon. "Something has the birds spooked down south. Dragon Pit is that way."

The hatred-filled howl of a defeated animal made the air shake, forcing the duo to stumble slightly. Fate noticed that Katarina didn't pull away quite as quickly as she could have, and kept his thoughts to himself. Perhaps he hadn't removed himself from her proximity as quickly as he could have either.

Shaking sensations pulled him from his reverie, the feeling of the stone underfoot shuddering under the impact of multiple weapons. The defensive towers in the Legends Guild were hardly as sturdy as they appeared. Simple structure-bearing runes were etched into each stone, capable of being damaged by any weapon. The more runes were removed, the less support the tower had; although the magic fueling the attacks from the various orifices never flagged.

At this point, the Blue team was getting closer, hammering the rune stones with gusto. The structural integrity was decreasing to the point of no return.

Twisted Fate pulled a card from the air, twirling it between his fingers. He held out a hand to the shadowed figure in the corner, "No fightin' Destiny. Comin'?"

Mocking laughter met his ears, yet not stinging with the malice some would have attributed to its owner. The darkness became slightly more opaque, and she vanished. A single long scratch mark, fading on the self-repairing floor, pointed towards another tower, deeper in the Rift, and suitable for better observation. Practically a come-hither gesture, by her standards.

Twisted Fate let the card fall from his grasp, and let his luck carry him away.

An empty tower, blasts of stray magic streaming from its peak, fell into the rubble that had once been its base. The former heights, home to many conversations between allies and enemies – perhaps more – were ignored by the competing forces.

One window, distinguishable solely by the framework crushed against the ground, fell a little lower. A single playing card drifted to the ground, vanishing as it did so. That was the point of its existence – but it wasn't the end of its fate.


	4. Bringing Down the Hammer Part I

Jayce Laboratory,

5th of Grune

* * *

Piltover was renowned across Runeterra for a multitude of reasons: intelligent citizens, advanced hextechnology, an egalitarian democratic-republic mode of government. It was clean, a model of modern efficiency, and had an efficient police force guaranteeing a peaceful existence throughout its borders.

But, that wasn't the most famous reason.

Compared to the giant metropolitan capitals of Ionia, Noxus and Demacia, Piltover could be seen as tiny. Its borders could be fully engulfed by a single borough of one of the larger neighbors. Its intellect on the other hand easily matched the most powerful cities in history.

Jayce prided himself on being part of the reason Piltover was held in such respect. His own laboratory – more of a workshop in his opinion – had developed some of the best personal armor man could design. The sentries and soldiers wore his designs while protecting the city, a point of pride both for his immediate neighborhood and himself. Even the Champions in the League of Legends had begun looking at his handiwork, the most recognized elite body of combatants on the face of the earth.

To wit, his current project: the analysis and development of a new isotope that had literally been discovered only a scant few months before. He carefully placed the crystal in its resting place; the base of a converter he'd designed. It had taken him _weeks_ to set up that particular device. Without false humility, Jayce doubted even the acknowledged genius of Heimerdinger's Yordle Academy could have been up to the task. He was just that good.

Music pounded in the background, almost matching the lucent beams in the crystal; a complex rhythm of sub-bass tones overriding a simple melodic theme. He'd always worked better with constant sound in the background; the more orderly the rhythm, the better he worked … but of course, the mental rest gained from an occasional bout of chaos couldn't be ignored. Regular beats of heavy metal – recorded from sessions in the metallurgy stress-test area – combined with a few tunes by a gifted neighbor made for an incredible mix.

Singing however, was out of his grasp. Listening to it was good, but actually vocalizing distracted him. Practicing his dance moves though, made for a good workout. Efficiency, entertainment, work – who could want anything more?

Jayce stomp-clicked his way to the power-test table, snagging a clipboard en route. Energy gates – again designed by himself – eased movement across the long laboratory, charging the micro-circuitry in his lab coat into accelerated movement. He paused at the end of the room, the subject of his attention glimmering in the recesses of its socket, welcoming him.

"Thirty seven peta-hex, incredible!" Jayce made a note, "Increasing load another five percent and … fifty two? Fifty two peta-hex? That's amazing!" The tiny white crystal, barely the size of his palm, glowed even more brightly, displaying no stress from the extra power requirement. "Yes!"

"Whatcha got, kid?" An unfamiliar voice startled Jayce.

He turned, flashing a smile at the pink-haired young lady standing at the door. She looked amused for some reason. The music quieted, sensing the presence of a new individual in the customer-welcome area. "Hello, I didn't hear you come in."

"Yeah, I noticed." Her grin widened, "So, _you're_ the famous Jayce? Mister 'Defender of Tomorrow?'"

Jayce groaned, lightening the emotion with another smile. "I have no idea where that last one came from. Probably some yordle frat party, it sounds like something they'd come up with." Spotting a cleaning rag, he wiped his hands free of grease. "But, I suppose you didn't come in here to debate my dubious cognomen, how can I help you?"

Her nose wrinkled, cutely in his opinion. "Cogno – you sure you're Jayce, the techmetallurgist? Not some yordle on steroids?"

"You wound me," Jayce played up the role, putting a hand over his heart, leaning back. She finally giggled, smirking at him. He leaned forwards, dropping the act, "Well, since you are in Jayce's Lab, I happen to have that name on my coat, _and_ I also appear to answer to that name … I would have to say I _am_ Jayce. Who are you?"

Her head came up, smirk still going at full power. "I'm Officer Vi, Piltover Police."

"Ah, one of Piltover's Finest." Jayce gestured, the command ring on his finger correctly interpreting his gesture and lowering the volume too background levels. He studied the woman, squinting slightly, "Aren't you a little short to be an officer?"

She snorted, reaching behind her back. Both hands returned covered in massive bits of armored metal, cables stretching to her upper back. Entire plates covered her forearms, ending in smooth shoulder guards that he'd almost missed seeing. "Cait says I need armor, and you're the one to talk to about it."

He glanced at her hands, interest in the woman herself vanishing at the prospect of new technology. "Hextech hardware? Mining rig, Delta five series …" he reached out, tapping the knuckle of one massive gauntlet. "Heavy usage, must have been upgraded a few times. Who does your repair work?"

"Yeah, that'd be me." her teeth shone in a smug fashion. "I'm here for the armor, not as a model for the toys."

Jayce shrugged, "Your choice. You'd make a fantastic model," he waited a beat, "the gloves would be a nice bonus too."

The blush crossing her face made him chuckle, "Alright, back to work. Do you have your measurements along?"

"My what?"

He sighed, "Come on, I'll set up the machine. Does your armor's power pack need calibrating while you wait?"

She shrugged. "I've never had it done. So long as it lets me punch, I don't care."

"Oh, no-no-no-no-noo!" Jayce stopped walking and turned to face her directly. "A properly calibrated power supply will extend the – ah – punching life immeasurably! Hook it up right, and you could even increase the force behind each motion!"

Light purple eyes widened. "I can punch harder?"

Jayce seized her lower arm, tugging insistently. "Come on, this is more important."

She pulled back, then let herself be drawn forwards. "You sure about this?"

"Sure I'm sure," Jayce let go, letting the energy gate crackle to life, propelling him to the table on the far side of the room. He flashed a winning smile back at the woman. "Come on, we'll get a basic diagnostic done in a minute, then we can upgrade it. Free of charge for our city's finest!"

Vi followed him, a bit more slowly than he had. "Fine, but no funny business, y'hear?"

"His hand flipped over his chest, "Cross my heart, hope to fly. Now enough talk, let's work!"

* * *

Time passed quickly, metal and circuits bending to their will. The already formidable gauntlets became full-length, extending from the hands all the way back to Vi's elbows. Their width increased to nearly double the previous existence, spreading in a wider guard that spanned over a foot across. After copious amounts of discussion, the shoulder-guards themselves became a lower-profile pauldron, easily compatible with the armor that would be finished soon.

After that, it was on to cosmetic features … proving that Vi was every bit as female as anyone else. Jayce wasn't exactly sure why the color scheme required so much thought, but if it made her happy, he was happy.

So engrossed was he, that Jayce failed to hear the next appointment arrive.

"Ahem, Mister … Jayce is it?" A foreign accented voice grated.

Jayce shot upright, but his hands – held very close to the circuits inside the closure point of Vi's armored power supply – remained rock steady. He withdrew them, careful to not touch the metal edges with the soldering iron. Its heat was limited solely to the tip, but even heavy gauge armor would melt under its influence.

"Victor! So good to see you in person!" Jayce dropped the tool, letting it rock dangerously in its cradle.

"Vell, I finally had time on mine hands, and ven I heard you'd been selected for developing a new energy source," the man shrugged, "how could I resist?"

Victor's metallic voice, filtered by his mask, was rather flat; if he hadn't been corresponding with the famed Zaunian inventor for so many months, Jayce would have mistrusted it immediately.

"Oh, where are my manners," Jayce smiled at the newcomer, "Victor, this is Officer Vi; Officer, Victor, of Zaun."

The pink-haired woman surveyed the Zaunite briefly, then bared her teeth in a smile. "Charmed. Your pardon if I don't shake your hand …." one massive gauntlet flexed in his direction.

"Oh, vhat I insist," Victor leaned over slightly, and a third hand extended around a shoulder – only this appendage was made purely of metal. It grasped her oversized hand, lost in its grip. "It is a true pleasure to see a fellow-minded student of human advancement."

Vi's mouth twisted to one side. "Yeah, pleasure."

The helmet canted, fiery eye-slits looking down on her shorter frame. They glowed brighter for a moment, casting a bright light over the woman. "Ah, perhaps not qvuite as devoted as I'd thought. Your evolution vould be advanced much more qvuickly if you vher to make such admirable augmentations … permanent."

She snarled. "Slice myself up because I'm too lazy to put on some gloves? No thanks."

"Vi!" Jayce pushed forwards, "It was just a suggestion—nothing personal meant by it I'm sure."

Vi snorted, then stomped towards the door, metal gleaming. She paused, and then turned back, "Thanks for the tune-up. I'll leave you to your _friend_."

Jayce winced as she slammed the door. _That could have gone better._

"A fiery temper, she. A vorthy mate, should you decide to reproduce, yes?" Victor's mask swayed back towards Jayce, almost reptilian in its movements.

The unexpected advice almost cost Jayce his equilibrium, but at the last moment he regained his mental footing. He swallowed. "You came to discuss the energy crystal?"

There was no mistaking Victor's interest. Although the operations he'd undergone had apparently removed all emotion, there was still an obvious amount of excitement. "Certainly. Please, show me vhat you will."

With only a small glance at the empty doorway, Jayce walked his guest through the security measures. Electric sensors wired into darts, signals that went directly to the Piltover Police department, mechs waiting in the walls … while he had not gone into the massively overdone systems, he had a tasteful, high quality hardware.

"Ah." The helmeted man's breath of appreciation escaped as an almost sibilant hiss. Jewel-like eyes studied the crystal, an almost palpable greed visible.

"So then, shall we get to the testing?" Jayce held out a lab coat to his visitor.

Victor tore his gaze away, "You vould allow …? Indeed, you have the soul of a scientist. Yes, let's."

Jayce strapped a pair of safety goggles over his eyes. "Then to work!"

* * *

 **A/N: Still playing around with the chapter length; shorter chapters make for faster updates, I hope. Unfortunately FF seems to be blocking people from uploading documents, so I'm using a workaround at the moment (big thanks to Nightstride!). This story should have another 2-3 chapters in it, then I have a request I'm working on, just as a little heads up on my schedule here. Until next time!**


	5. Bringing Down the Hammer part II

The aftermath was … untidy. Parts of mechs lay strewn across the floor, neatly sliced into pieces. Energy barriers lay in ruins, overloaded well beyond their tolerance levels. But what hurt Jayce the most was how his pride and joy, the energy source entrusted to his care, was gone.

Its socket, so carefully designed for optimal conductivity, sat in its plinth. Like the hole in his heart, it was a gaping wound, bits of wire and hextechnology scattered around like expensive confetti.

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing we can do." A compassionate voice murmured.

Jayce didn't respond, still looking at the hole that had once held so much potential.

The voice cleared itself, resuming its quiet tone. "The Commissioner took it all the way to the top, tried to get a warrant to pursue Viktor. The justice … declined."

 _He's an animal._ Jayce felt his shoulders slump, less in response to the news than the long-overdue realization that he'd been deceived so thoroughly. _Cunning. Sadistic. Evil. And I invited him right into my home; my fortress._

"Do you have anything you can tell us?"

Jayce slowly looked up. The woman had introduced herself as Caitlyn, a detective with the Piltover Police. Recently, she'd become a member of the League, for reasons no one knew. Vi – _Officer Vi_ he corrected himself – was her partner, and rumored to be tapped for the next League membership application.

Caitlyn's unusual hat drew his attention; the telescopic sight, doubling as a magnifying glass was intriguing, as was the small anemometer. The gun leaning against the nearest wall seemed made of the same material, identical scratch marks to the ones on her headgear.

 _Stop woolgathering._ Jayce shook his head slowly. "We were working on the power supply … improved the efficiency over five hundred percent. Then he … started talking. Improvements. Using the power to augment upgrades," his face worked as the taste of bile made itself felt once more. " _Forced_ surgery, to improve people. Evolve, he called it."

"And then?" her voice was soft, coaxing.

He just shook his head, staring at the plinth again. _So much potential, gone. Forever gone, out of reach, used to twist people … all my defenses down like they were nothing._

"Jayce?" A different voice came in, one more familiar. Pink hair moved into his range of vision. Her eyes didn't judge, but showed no mercy either. The massive gauntlets he'd helped create contracted in tiny increments, mimicking the motions of the hands beneath. Tiny, delicate, rather attractive hands – not that he would admit it. Not after what he'd done.

He groaned, covering his face in both hands, rubbing at the shame. "We … disagreed. Violently. My protections weren't designed for someone like him, just petty thefts. Maybe a smash-and-grab by a hex-tech boosted criminal," he lowered a hand, letting his head rest on the soothing darkness of one palm. "That hand of his has a focused tetryon particle beam; slices through metal. Freeze field, chaos-engine multiplier. My security might as well have been a big sign saying: 'Don't.' Maybe I could have hit him with it."

A small chuckle met his statement. Jayce gave a halfhearted grin, but let it slide off his face again. "He took it and left. Everyone else was in the safe room … at least it was good for _something._ "

Caitlyn made a note on her paper, "Thank you for your time, Mister Jayce." She hesitated, "May I ask what you plan to do next?"

He felt an unaccustomed bittersweet sneer bloom. "My contract was canceled, no more energy research for my workshop. Maybe take up basket weaving."

A dismissive snort struck his ears. He looked up, but Vi was already walking away, muttering under her breath.

"Thank you for your time, Mister Jayce. I hope you will prosper despite the setback." Caitlyn's cultured tones seemed a little strained.

"Will the Assembly authorize a retrieval team?" Jayce stood up, using his greater height to tower over the shorter detective.

She hesitated, biting her lower lip.

"No. They won't." Vi cut in, looking back from the door. "Sending a team to Zaun would be declaring war. You know that. You _should_ have known that when you invited that – "

"Vi." Caitlyn's glare silenced the hextech officer.

Jayce exhaled sharply through the nose. "She's right. I was a fool, and now the world will pay the price."

The female detective sighed, raising her hands in surrender. She walked past Vi, shaking her head slowly.

Jayce listened to the fading footsteps, the creak of the main door open, then close. _At least Victor left me my doors, if not my pride._

That thought brought him dangerously close to the darkness he'd been wallowing in earlier. _My work. Improvements that I made, adaptations I created … in the hands of a monster. Does that make me a monster by association?_ His hand closed around the handle of a wrench, squeezing it as if his fingers were wrapped around the Zaunian scientist's neck.

With an oath, he hurled the wrench across the room. The tool smacked into an abnormally clean section of wall, booming hollowly before dropping to the floor. It clattered abysmally, sound echoing around the room as if it were the confines of his soul.

A clearing throat startled him. Jayce turned, seeing Vi still leaning against the doorframe. There was a strange look in her eye; they kept skipping from the fallen wrench to the dented wall – the _deeply_ dented wall he noticed – back to him. A half-smirk played around her lips, as if she were trying to decide something.

"Officer." Jayce glanced at the wall again, how had he forgotten _that_ project? "I didn't know you were still here."

She pushed away from the wall, sauntering in his direction. "I was trying to think up something clever. Just about had it when you …." she gestured, gauntlets whirring.

"Always had a temper." Jayce muttered. "Sorry, should have kept control."

"No no, I kinda like it." She smirked at him again. "So what are you _really_ gonna do?"

He looked into her bright violet eyes, gauging her interest. They looked back, curious, guileless. He turned away, facing the dented wall once more. "Officer, you ensure the peace of Piltover, do you not?"

"Guardian of the peace sometimes means you need a little chaos." Vi sounded smug. "You're not going to make me put you in … cuffs, or anything, are you?"

Jayce ignored the last part. "Hex, open Project Mercury." A smile crossed his face as the wall slowly rotated. Bits and pieces of metal clung to its surface, a confusing maze of parts. "Thank you for your help, Officer. I wish you the best of luck in your application to the League."

"That's it? Thanks and goodbye?"

He reached into the depths of the locker. His hands returned, holding the bare skeleton of a large, heavy hammer. Grooves etched into the handle and holes puncturing its length gave proof to its unfinished state. "Vi, the police won't help. They can't. But a private citizen …."

The handle twisted clockwise in his hands, a deep-toothed gear system clicking from inside. The blade shrank, bending into a curved shape. He arched an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to draw her own conclusions.

"Yeah, I see that," her smirk returned full force. Her boots made a hard tapping sound on the floor as she stalked forwards. One hand reached out, grabbing a fist full of his shirt, pulling him down to her level. She winked. "For luck."

Jayce didn't attempt to pull away, he'd helped rework the gauntlets and knew full well of their capabilities. "What do mmh –" he stopped, forced as her lips muffled his words.

She pulled back, leaving him dazed. "Good luck."

"Um … thanks?" Jayce blinked at her, "You move fast, don't you?"

Vi winked, "I know what I like, and I go for it." She gave an exaggerated sigh, "Well, I suppose us _decent_ folk better get going. Don't want any lawbreakers to get away now."

He could only watch as she sashayed to the door, an extra bit of swing to her step he hadn't seen there before. "Hey Vi," he paused, waiting until her head turned to look over her shoulder. "Thanks."


	6. Bringing Down the Hammer part III

Zaun, the City of Privileges, was no stranger to destructive battles. Doctor Mundo's creations were well-protected, and trespassing resulted in much fear and a temporary abundance of new experimental material. Sump Works had undergone radical reorganization not too long ago, following the death of multiple crack-execution teams in the sewers below.

Personal liberty, considered to be a premium in Zaun, also promoted competition. Where regulation made a half-hearted attempt to restrict such things, violence made a powerful contribution. Corporations engaged in espionage and sabotage, using people like chess pieces, undermining the opposition.

No one was _forced_ to live in Zaun, after all. Well, aside from the prisoners rumored to be held by Priggs Industries. But Priggs himself had actually engaged in slave labor; the other corporations had seen opportunity and leaped. Boots first.

Priggs Industries wasn't much of a company anymore. But that was the benefit of a free city; get caught doing wrong, and nothing protects you.

Case in point, Viktor's Laboratory.

White-hot energy blasted apart another construct, shredding its carapace into residual components. Follow-up shots pounded the blast door from which it had emerged, fusing its metal edges together.

Jayce twirled the Mercury hammer in both hands, shifting from ranged fire to melee in a heartbeat. Hex-servos whirred, preparing for his next move as if the device read his mind. Technically, it couldn't … but it did have an unusually close reaction time to his reflexes.

A monster leaped from what it had foolishly assumed to be a good hiding place, only to be met by Jayce in midair. The hammer swung forwards, mashing its metal-lined face flat for an instant before Jayce's entire weight drove the monstrosity through the floor itself.

Another creature leaped at him, wailing as its misshapen limbs reached for Jayce's throat. The thing was met by an electric field, generated by the crossed straps centered over Jayce's chest.

Jayce flipped the handle once more, slapping the activation dial into position, pausing once to bellow at the blank doorways. "Viktor!"

Squeezing the handle released an energy gate, copies of the tiny models in his workshop. He launched an energy/mass hybrid projectile through the crackling field, accelerating the projectile into an even greater force. The combined effects battered at the latest barrier, finally breaking it into pieces.

"Come out and face me, coward!" Jayce kicked a hanging portion of the door out of the way. Armored boots, far, far stronger than he'd initially built for Piltover Armory turned the heavy wood into splinters, metal shards breaking apart in a deadly rain.

Metallic laughter bubbled from within the Zaunian's laboratory. The sound drove Jayce into greater fury, just in time to meet a horde of Viktor's creations.

His hammer twisted, using the inherent energy to launch both itself and its wielder, bringing the inventor upwards just shy of the ceiling. _Traitor._ The hammer came down with a touch more enthusiasm than he'd planned. The shockwave smashed through the entire squad of creatures, flinging their broken bodies away. _Those eyes … I know that color!_

"Viktor!" Jayce snarled again. The last batch had been emitting a white sheen around their eyes, the very same color his former masterpiece had given off. This time he lay into the security door with the hammer form, servo-enhanced muscles putting his best effort behind the blow.

It burst under the impact. He would have been surprised had he noticed its construction: pure armor-grade metal.

This time security mechs rushed at him. Fortunately, they were slow moving hunks of metal, while he wielded the latest in hextechnology.

He hissed at the white sparks emanating from the mechs, and twirled the hammer once more. In a moment, fell to one knee, feeling the Mercury Cannon quiver in anticipation. Plasma roared from its depths, melting the mechs into scrap metal.

"I trusted you!" Jayce trained his fury onto the next wave of mechanical slaves. "Let you into my home!" Sparks flew, setting anything flammable nearby on fire. "I told you everything and you stole it from me!"

A quick rotation, and the Mercury Hammer crushed the final mech, making the very floor's metal seams groaning under the strain. "Coward! Face me!"

The echoing, booming voice rolled out from the depths. _"And why, Jayce, would I do that? You are interrupting my work … I must commend you for taking this step, but was it really necessary?"_

"Necessary?" Jayce stalked through the next, broken doorframe. His eyes lit on a worktable, covered in sketches. The armor flashed, activating the deadly energy field, setting mere paper ablaze. "That kind of power in _your_ hands?"

" _Power goes to those strong enough to take it. Look at yourself, Jayce. You had the power in your grasp for years, yet only now do you seize what is rightfully yours. You should thank me, and leave me to my work."_

"Thank you? _Thank you?"_ Jayce peered at the floor, then at the walls. Something was off about the rooms construction.

" _You are welcome. Now, go away."_

The dimensions were off, indicating the walls were not what they seemed. Jayce reared back, cocking his wrists for a full-on power blow. "I'm not done with you yet, traitor."

Wood shattered under the force of his blow, entire panels turning into a pulped haze. A secret passageway, formerly hidden behind the walls, beckoned. He smiled, shifting his weapon to ranged mode once more and pushed onward.

Viktor's voice boomed again, but the walls muffled the words beyond recognition. Jayce smirked; insulation in the walls prevented someone inside the bolt hole from being heard … that worked both ways.

In a matter of minutes, he'd made his way further than the previous hour. Viktor's creations were unintelligent, and while sturdy, no real opposition to his cutting edge hardware.

Two door seals impeded his progress, but were no match for his skills. The technical ones; smashing was cathartic, but loud. There would be enough satisfaction when he pushed in Viktor's face.

Jayce stopped. Where had _that_ come from? Violence wasn't something to cherish, it wasn't in his nature. A certain brash, pink-haired memory came back, and he grinned.

* * *

The main chamber was reflective of its owner's personality, and oddly cluttered for such an advanced mind. Jayce shook his head, he really shouldn't be surprised. Chaos was Viktor's key after all. Give him a perfectly organized set of data, and the man would shred it into some vague mockery of sense.

The white crystal, for example. Jayce shook with fury, just looking at it. A complex arrangement held it in place, similar to the pedestal still in his own workshop. Hex-technology supported the device, similar to his own creation, down to the output wiring trailing through the sides.

But where Jayce had strived for elegant expression, Viktor had pushed for raw power.

"It was very foolish to come here, Jayce." Viktor's metallic voice was no longer the regal mocking tone it had been. "You know I can't let you leave."

Jayce smirked. From what he'd seen of the various businesses en route, what he had destroyed was probably the equivalent of his own security system. Brutal, efficient, and so very _Viktor._ "You paid me a visit to my own workshop Viktor. It seemed rude to not repay the favor."

The metal-covered man stared, then laughed, a hollow, haunting sound. "I never fully appreciated how – Zaunian you could be. Truly, you have exceeded my expectations." He took a step closer, staff raised slightly, "There is still time old friend. The weapons you designed, the armor you wear – truly I say they are works of genius! Entire armies would flock to your name, just for one piece made by you."

"Flatterer." Jayce backed a half step, turning his shoulder to one side. It was obvious what Viktor would do next; how fortunate the machine-man was so obvious. "I already clothe armies, the police of Piltover."

Viktor laughed again, " _Police,"_ he sneered. "Another word for vassals too weak to think for themselves. They protect the weak, prey on the strong, and for what? A pitiful stipend, barely enough to keep one rested and almost away from hunger?"

His Mercury hammer twirled slowly, hungry for more violence; sometimes he wondered if Vi had managed to imbue her personality on the item. _Maximum charge in twenty seconds, shield is ready. Doors shifted fifteen seconds ago, watch for more … changed._ The armor ticked comfortingly on his chest, ready for their next dance. "Vic," it was amusing, seeing the emotionless man react to the nickname, "we both know what you're doing. Quit stalling."

Time slowed, and Viktor raised his hand. _Five – four – three – two – one …_ The purple Chaos engine rose into being, too large to avoid, trapping Jayce in Viktor's laboratory.

Sighing, Viktor waved one of his original hands at the trapped man. "So be it. Kill him."

Splintering, the doors burst open, unleashing a horde of still-living – perhaps more accurately, undead – creatures. They charged on the lone man, frozen at the center of the circle.

Except, he wasn't at the center. He'd moved.

Viktor jerked back, "How did you –"

Heavy weight crashed into his torso, flinging him back into the wall. Only a quick roll, aided by the strength of the appendage hidden behind his back, prevented a … crushing … defeat.

Jayce used the delay to swap modes once more, flicking white-hot plasma at the creatures swarming his way. "Banshee armor," he commented aloud. "Completely experimental, but I was reasonably certain the runes worked." A brief sound propelled him sideways, shifting back into melee.

Viktor's energy projectile slid past, burning a red line in the floor. Jayce responded by activating the electric field, repelling the malformed creations in a howling rush. One knocked into Viktor, spinning the metallic figure over once more.

Despite the reprieve, Jayce took a moment before bringing his hammer down on the inventor's skull. The metal deformed in a deafening crash; limbs spasming in a final defiant motion. Apparently, the Zaunian inventor had actually replaced organic parts with metal … only lubricants leaked onto the floor.

It didn't feel … Victorious, not really. All he felt was tired and sore. The walk to the crystal seemed to take forever, although it was merely halfway across the room. His muscles twinged, reminding him of exercises he hadn't done in years. That situation would be remedied; as soon as he got back, there would be a new program. It wasn't enough to have a good set of armor, he had to use it and use it well.

The first start would be to safely dispose of the crystal. He couldn't afford to train, work on his projects, _and_ continually guard the home. Not all the time.

Groaning caught up to his ears, followed by a familiar cold chuckle.

"Did you really think you could kill me like that?"

Jayce turned around with a weary sigh. Viktor had risen to his feet, looking no worse for the wear than when they'd met at the beginning. A faint glow of wings flickered in pseudo-motion, rapidly appearing and vanishing, taunting in their ephemeral presence.

"You have your Banshee, I created the Guardian Angel; a quaint idea I thought. Hextechnology is truly a marvelous thing, wouldn't you agree?" Viktor's staff rose, landing in his palm with a smacking sound. "Now, where were we?"

He'd had enough. Enough of the lies, enough of the fighting, everything. Jayce took one more step, raised his hammer and smashed it against the crystal power source, hitting it just at the point where the crystal's facets connected to the superconducting wires. The gem exploded, a shockwave transmitting itself across the room, buffeting the two men.

Echoes faded to silence, while Jayce glared. "At the end point." He turned his back on the other man. "You're a member of the League, or will be soon enough. I can see the signs. I won't deprive them of your skill. But I _will_ keep you from benefiting by my hand. We are done."

In a rare occurrence, Viktor apparently didn't have anything to say.

And then, Jayce went home.

* * *

The hammer, he hung on the wall where the automatons immediately began their purification routine. Unlike most other times, there was much work for them to do. His armor went on a stand near the hammer, where identical machines began the same sequence. Closing the clear glass panel, sealing the hardware inside completed the control, sequence. Fresh, clean water turned crimson as it sprayed over the combat gear. A euphemism, perhaps, for what he'd done; a messy situation occurring on his watch was now resolved.

A pity there had been nothing he could do for the poor test subjects. Pining over them would help nothing though, and pragmatism had been a strong suit of his.

Jayce cleaned himself up, showering the unpleasant sensation off his body. As the hot water ran against his back, he considered what he'd just done.

He'd deliberately gone against public policy. Not being a public official, that was not a problem. Creating – and using –military grade hardware was a potential problem, but he had backup plans for that. The free enterprise model espoused by Zaun had its attractions, several of which he'd like to see implemented in Piltover. Perhaps he could found his own tech center, if kicked out of Piltover.

Medically, there was nothing to be done. Antibacterial salve was the most he could do for the cuts, and a few bandages covered the larger gashes. He was no professional, but it wasn't rocket science.

Finishing, he put his lab clothes back on. The automatons had completed repairs to the workshop, but there was still plenty of work to do. If time permitted, there were upgrades planned, if the funds became available.

Knocking came at the door.

Jayce limped to the door. It opened as he approached, recognizing the rune structure in his badge.

Outside, a familiar pink-haired police officer waited, a big grin on her face. He smiled in return. "I'm back."

"So I see, you crazy jerk." She opened her arms and hugged him, powerful gauntlets closing behind his back. "Everyone's talking about it, how a private citizen went out to Zaun and whupped their arrogant butts."

"Hardly," Jayce pulled back, prompting her to release, although she drew him closer for just a moment, demonstrating the gauntlet's strength. "I made it to Viktor's laboratory, and … may have … gone medieval on it."

Her grin widened. "That's what I like to hear. Say, I'm off duty …" her expression turned innocent. "Got some time for one of Piltover's Finest? Maybe tell a girl how things went down?"

The labcoat made a swishing noise as it caught on a chair. He could work later. Sounds of the city nightlife made him raise his voice as he walked outside. "Now, I would have to be rather unintelligent to show a lack of appreciation for the Piltover Police. Would you have any place in mind?"

"Yeah," the door closed slowly behind the pair. He could hear the smile in her voice. "Yeah, I do."

* * *

 **A/N: And there we go, the final Jayce-related installment; not as humorous as I'd hoped, but I like how it turned out. Present progress is on a more light-hearted fic next (a request), and another chapter to Unwelcome Discovery. See ya down the road :)  
**


	7. Trouble with Magic

Stars, little bits of the sky that twinkled in the night. Mother had always said they winked at him; the polite thing to do was to return the favor.

Of course, some mocked the idea, claiming there was no point. Few appreciated the world for what it was: a gift to admire and cherish. Bad things happened, but there was no point dreading everything that _could_ happen. Bad enough it actually happened, why prolong the fear?

Like that patch of multicolored beauty approaching from the west. Braum smiled, admiring the brilliant colors. It looked almost as if the skies were reaching down, caressing the earth. Not like lightning, that was more like a comradely shoulder-punch, like Janna used.

He smiled again. Janna was nice, she loved weather, no matter how windy it got. Garen sometimes lost his positive attitude in rain; but it wasn't terribly hard to cheer up the big man. Especially when a few cookies came his way.

Yawning, Braum stretched out his arms, accidentally hitting the shield at his side. It rocked, as if irritated. "Sorry," he apologized, and patted its smooth flank. "I wasn't watching."

It settled back in place, satisfied.

The night sky shone even more brightly as more stars came out and the strange light drew closer. It was an excellent night for the challenge, to sleep outdoors for an entire night. No one knew where the paper had come from, but every changing room in the League sported one. It had been almost … magical, the way the entire group had pulled together. Who could resist a donation of such munificence to the charity of choice?

He shifted his arms behind his head, resting on the biceps flexing there. The small rune-engraved bracelet made it slightly uncomfortable, but the instructions had been clear: he had to wear it the entire night, and all of the next day, or else the contract would be considered broken.

Feeling sleepy, Braum turned on a shoulder. His motion obscured the action of the strange light, and the faint flashes of light reaching down from the sky to the ground. Multiple pinpricks touched Piltover, home of the renowned Heimerdinger, Jayce and Detective Caitlyn. Another series flickered over the city of Zaun, where Victor and Doctor Mundo dwelled.

As he drifted closer to slumber, Braum also missed his shield shuddering. Although the ground had not moved, it twisted slowly, turning its broad face towards the light. The rams head embossed on the shield's defensive face became visible, glaring at the night sky with a fury reserved solely for the mightiest of foes.

Gently, falling over its length at a much reduced velocity, the shield toppled over Braum's sleeping form. The big man grunted once, then curled up, pulling his bare limbs under the protective bulk as a freezing mist emanated off its edges.

The shield was a marvel of ancient engineering. No one knew exactly how old it was, just that its original manufacturer had been supremely gifted. For some eons, it had served as a protective entry to a treasure trove, impenetrable to the most abusive forces nature and man could bring to bear. Only the cunning might of one honest soul had bested its defenses, and it had faithfully served that man ever since.

The rams head, one horn broken from some unimaginably powerful force, stared at the sky. The icy sheen, enhancing its defensive properties, gleamed under the night stars.

All through the night, the strange light storm launched flare after flare at the bulwark, seeking the prone man beneath its mass. Each time, the light broke apart, disintegrating at the icy touch.

Braum never awoke, and slept as soundly as he ever had.

Morning

Stretching, giving a yawn worthy of a Frejlord, Braum rose from his nights rest. IT had been strangely satisfying, as if he'd been secure in his parents homestead long ago. When he'd awoken, he'd discovered his shield had tipped over in the night, protecting him from the night breeze.

Chuckling, Braum slapped the shield's formidable bulk. "Always there for me, aren't you?" He hefted it on one arm; lrtting it settle in place. Contrary to rumor, he wasn't the only man that could lift it. Garen had tried it out for a time, and Doctor Mundo had attempted using it as a defensive measure from Little Annie's sorcerous flames. Neither had used it for long; the former due to the long two-handed sword he preferred, and the latter because the shield had somehow slipped and mashed a foot.

Today, he felt energized! So full of life! He looked down the mountain; there was a match today, from all the participants in the challenge. The League was less than two leagues away as the Valor flew – he chuckled at the pun – why not take the adventurous route?

Braum sprang to his feet, running towards the sheer cliffside near his home. Goats loved to climb, and it was always an invigorating exercise before a good match. He paused at the edge, filling his lungs to their maximum capacity before releasing it in a bellowing cry.

Far below, tiny dots began coalescing around the rocks. Braum grinned, beginning his first leap. Children. He _loved_ children. They were the few still wise enough to see the world with open eyes, to witness the glorious wonder it had to offer. A stray rock caught his eye, widening his smile. He'd give them a show.

* * *

"It's him! It's him!" Annabelle's shrill voice screamed.

Obel strained to see. They'd all heard Braum of the Mountain's call, and rushed to the nearest point. There, a small dot flying from the top of the mountainside! Only one man was strong enough, skilled enough to challenge the Death Slope.

"He's gonna splat!" a different voice piped up.

He frowned at the boy. "No he's not!"

"Uh huh!"

"Uh uh!"

"Uh huh!"

"Uh uh!"

"Lookit!" Annabelle screamed again.

They forgot their argument, watching the man of the mountain fall earthward. Somehow, the giant of a man twirled along the sheer face of the mountain, descending with the speed of a falcon, but graceful as a tuft of thistledown.

He cheered, trying to make his voice heard above the yells the others were making. The legend's face was visible now, a smile as wide as half of Aunty Em's Lunar Pies. _That's_ why he rushed to see Braum. When Braum smiled, it was as if there was nothing could happen, everything that happened did so for a reason. Not even the screams that came from the nearby League of Legends towers could dampen that smile.

Obel stretched his hands above his head, jumping up and down. Briefly, he caught the massively built legend's eye, and redoubled his cheering.

Then, there he was! Braum sailed overhead, leaping to the next ledge down. One powerful hand reached down, slapping against the outstretched palms, somehow touching every hand before vanishing over the side. Joyful laughter bubbled out of his throat, he'd _touched_ Braum!

Booming chuckles echoed from under the ridge; Braum laughing with them. It just sent the children into higher paroxysms of laughter.

Obel caught the eye of the doubting boy. "Uh huh. Told you he'd make it."

* * *

The walls passed in a blur, each foothold reaching out to him like an old friend. The infectious enthusiasm the mountain holdt's children had pushed him faster, further than before. Not to his ultimate capacity, but better all the same. He threw his head back, laughing as he approached the final landing point. The day was starting out so wonderfully!

He touched down, knees bent to absorb the impact, shield tilted. Rising to his feet, he started towards the regal double doors of the League.

A high-pitched scream stopped his movement. It was far higher than most members were capable of releasing, and … dare he say it …? Girlier?

 _New member then,_ Braum put it out of his mind, and gave the opening doors a cheerful wave as he passed. "Thank you!" The doors waited the polite extra half-second as he passed, and closed behind him.

Inside, Braum stopped. Running towards him was … Jinx. He thought. But this Jinx was – taller. Wider shouldered. Also, this Jinx was screaming in a tenor, not high soprano. The content of speech was off as well; he'd been so surprised by her new appearance that he'd almost missed that fact.

"Ow ow ow ow owie owwww!" Jinx danced past on one foot, tugging at her pants. "Ithurtsithurtsithurts – owowowowow!"

Braum just stopped, watching her – him? – go past. While the long twin pigtails was indeed pure Jinx, the voice and body was of a man.

The high-pitched scream echoed through the hall once more. Jinx's eyes grew wider, just before vanishing in a multi-colored blur.

Turning back down the hall, Braum found himself almost bulldozed by Taric … but he was looking as strange as Jinx. His thick legs had slimmed considerably into curvaceous limbs, and his height had reduced by over a head. The chestplate sagged; what had once been a powerful statement of protection was now … drooping.

His jaw dropped as Taric squeezed the breastplate to his torso, got a wide-eyed expression and screamed once again.

Moving to one side, Braum eased past the … imitation Taric. Or Taric, if something had happened far out of proportion to the normal manner of things.

The room near the front door opened, letting Braum enter. But he was the only one in there.

Things weren't adding up. Normally, the room was filled with occupants before a match, joking and jostling shoulders in mock anger. Some anger was real, and the suppressing forces of the room had to deliver warnings a time or two, especially to the more … volatile members. Even the most powerful inhibitors were incapable of withstanding the raw might of the more powerful warriors, or fully eclipse the cunning minds of those less powerful.

But now, the room was silent. Granite floors remained un-stomped, the showers were dry, and the wall hangings rested in a nigh static form on the walls.

He stepped to the side door, the more popular entrance for most. Outside his startled gaze met a shuffling horde of … women.

Eyebrows lifted, Braum forced himself to examine the faces. "Garen, my friend. You look … rested."

A tall woman folded her arms. "Braum. How odd you are here, looking like … yourself."

Braum looked down at himself quizzically, then back at the warrior. "How else, I look?"

The other warrior stepped forward, seizing Braum's shoulder strap. "How about, like a _woman?_ "

"Why?" Braum chuckled warmly, "I happy as me."

Garen seized him with both hands around the throat, "I don't _want_ to be this … this … _form!_ None of us do! _How did you do it?"_

Braum looked around. Most of the … men … wore ill-fitting clothes, and highly disgruntled expressions. Understanding dawned. They thought – _he_ …. Laughter, starting from the depths of his chest. It exploded from him with such force that Garen's hands were the only thing that kept him upright.

"Ha, Garen … my friend …." Braum wiped his eyes, "Of course I help you. Braum _always_ help!"

The other man's hands slackened, but then the warning bell sounded. A limited amount of time was left before the next match would begin.

"What are we supposed to do?" Garen lifted his hands high, begign the heavens.

"Do?" Braum lifted one eyebrow. "Go, have fun. Come back, we talk more. What else?"

His friend's not-as-broad shoulders drooped, following the lead of his head. "True … you speak truth, old friend. But please …" blue eyes met blue eyes, "Please, do not _ever_ tell Katrina about this."

The visual cue for the next match appeared. Braum patted Garen's shoulder. "Go now. Magic will help in arena. I hunt here, see what I find."

Sighing, Garen nodded once, then waved at the grouped people behind him. "Come on then, I trust Braum. Let's get moving."

Muttered growls broke out, but they moved. In some cases, they wore surly expressions … but gave him a respectful amount of space. At that point, Braum noticed both Karthus and Azir seemed to still be – masculine, for lack of a better term. Hecarim on the other hand, made a formidable female centaur, glaring at Braum with potent rage.

A heavy, reassuring weight became noticeable; Braum patted the shield's top, and turned away from the procession. He had work to do, and knew where to start.

[break]

"My little friends," Braum knelt on the rubble outside. The sounds of opening combat came from the Rift; how it could reach him from inter-dimensional realms … he had no idea. Then a small, furry head popped up, looking at him enquiringly.

Braum held out a poro snack, letting the tiny being latch onto the cinnamon-flavored roll. The poro blinked adoringly, and grew a mustache identical to Braum's.

He laughed, appreciative of the thought. Poros were some of the hardest working, most enduring figures in Runeterra; it was an honor to befriend one, and they had chosen to be friends in return! "Thank you little one. But I need help. You tell king?"

Dark eyes, set in a white fluffy body considered his position, then nodded slowly. The snack, large as it was, vanished in a twinkling before the tiny poro scampered back down the tunnel, moving deeper to the King's chamber.

Waiting, Braum looked at the sky. Janna, in a masculine form, was apparently exorcising an inner anger by forming tornadoes from nothing. He shook his head; the entire female contingent around the League headquarters had become … violent. Particularly those that had been wearing the more form-fitting garments.

A _presence_ made itself known, a calm ocean pressing on his mind. Braum stood at once. "King Poro! Happy to see you!"

The giant poro acknowledged his presence, but frowned.

Thinking on his feet, Braum immediately made the connection. "I mean, Queen Poro?"

The giant poro acknowledged his presence with a regal nod, and waited.

Braum settled his shield to one side, "Then you know of the magic? Fighters are … different?"

Ponderously, the Poro Queen gave him another slow nod.

"Magic happen. Trick, but not know why. Your people help?" Braum offered a bright smile, adding deeper layers of meaning to his words. Poros communicated differently than most, and smiles were a major portion of their linguistics.

A distant look entered the massive being's eyes; and Braum could feel a deep purring rumble through the soles of his feet. Only the King - or Queen in this case – could use that level of communication; the smaller kindred were limited to short-range yips.

Suddenly, the wise eyes focused on his again, and blinked affirmation.

"Bravo!" Braum slammed his shield into the ground, grinning widely. "I see you soon, yes?"

Before his eyes, the Poro Queen smiled back, fading from sight. A good omen, especially how the last thing to vanish was the giant poro's grin. Or so Grandmother Alice would have said.

* * *

It had taken a long time, but Braum had made his way into the Rift, even though his name did not appear on the current permissions roster. The poros had guided him through the treacherous maze, bolstered by the fortifying snacks he always carried with him. The magical pulse had centered from the Rift itself, but more than that, they had not been able to determine. So, it was up to Braum, who was not only strong and good looking, but intelligent as well.

"Ho! Baron!" He called out to the titanic creature that sometimes dwelled in the Rift.

A smaller creature than he'd expected answered his summons. It's single, massive eye looked over him carefully.

"Ah, Herald!" Braum gave the being a friendly wave, "Was expecting Nashor. You well?"

The man-sized monster shrugged, rolling its eye expressively.

"Yes, life goes on." Braum agreed. "What can anyone do?"

Another shimmying bobble.

"Ha! That's good!" Braum laughed, "Greet wife for me, yes?"

The Baron Herald bowed, performing the entire bending/twisting action in a single fluid motion. Like the poros, the Baron clans communicated through channels few heard. Of course, few listened to what they had to say, which was a pity. The species as a whole passed down wisdom across the ages, gaining the ability to turn a short comment into a gem of wisdom.

He returned the gesture, and moved on. Perhaps the current Dragon had seen something? The Terror – formal name of a dragon group – were a social bunch, gossiping worse than a group of teenage girls.

A familiar figure strode towards him. It was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a powerful physique, similar to many of the League's larger warriors. Fortunately, the giant skull, that had ephemeral tendrils wavering in and out of existence around the edges, clued him in for her identity.

"Ill-oy!" There was a certain amount of relief he felt, at least some constants had remained constant. "You look …" he swallowed, "Good as always."

He stepped closer. "My _name_ is _Ih-low-y_!" The skull glowered menacingly. "What are you doing here? Garen told us of your quest, when shall I resume my form?"

Braum blinked. He could see no difference between the current body and what he remembered. He put it out of mind; better to keep going and understand later. "The magic, it came from here. This I know. I look further now."

The woman in a wrong body snorted at him, then turned away. "Wrong body, wrong feel, just … _wrong!_ "

Braum nodded silent agreement.

* * *

"So I say, 'But Teemo, you _already_ small, why worry now?'" Braum finished, barely holding in the laughter.

The dragon roared approval, chortling smoke through its nostrils in its amusement. It growled at Braum, snarling and snapping.

Braum nodded, "Aye, I can do that. Thank you for help. Live well, friend."

"Braum?" An unfamiliar tenor drew his attention.

"Ashe!" He outstretched his arms, "Little archer! Good to see you!" The original identity of the ranger was easy to determine, despite her suddenly greater height. In her new form, she still wore a kilt-like covering, and the ice-bow maintained its icy form.

The Frejlord archer grinned at him. "Nice to see you too Braum." He flexed a bicep, "I could get used to this kind of muscle power. Is this how it's like for you all the time?"

His own biceps pulsated in response, eliciting a grin from the newly manly chieftan. "Once, when I was little Braum, I was not as strong. Ever since … I just do what needs done."

Ashe laughed, "Hah, like always." An ululating cry boomed over the hilltops, shaking the ground. "Uh oh, blue team is going after Baron."

"What?" Braum twisted away, leaping into action. "No! I must talk with him!"

He was already moving when Ashe caught up, managing to keep up for a brief moment before falling back. "I have your back Braum, stay safe!" The _type_ of help came in the form of an ice-cold blast, chilling the air. To Braum, it felt refreshing, but he could see the crawler ducking deeper into the River as it froze over its antennae. Following hard on the blizzard's gale flew an arrow, nearly as big as Braum's shield, but far more aerodynamic.

Bellowing roars echoed to Braum's ears. Baron Nasher was being pushed, and pushed hard.

He arrived, just in time to see Illaoi recovering from the freezing cold blast. Her entire team was shaking itself free, Talon having somehow broken free earlier than the others and darting to the attack around the hill-sized monster.

"No!" Braum ran closer, shield lifting higher, "I must talk!"

A tentacle slapped against his shield, its stunning force blocked by the ancient artefact's strength. "Braum. Finally, a man who won't break."

He ignored her statement, and leaped to the Baron's defense. His shield released a blast of cold, stunning Talon before the assassin could react. Letting his movements flow, Braum twisted, blocking Gangplank's cannon blast, deflecting the rounds as if metal hail.

The Baron itself was not idle. Brought to near-death, it was now fighting for its life, using every cunning trick in its vast arsenal. Tentacles blasted out of the water, slapping champions aside like toys. Talon, it struck with an acid blast, deepening the chilling effect of Braum's attack until the assassin froze in place. One tentacle wrapped itself around the statue-like Talon, and hurled it far over the treetops.

Braum landed in front of the Baron, shielding it from another attacking barrage. The shield jerked left, protecting him from yet another lashing tentacle, then back to the right, expanding to contain the fiery blast from a … strange looking Ziggs. It had never occurred to him that yordles would be affected as well – even if the Poro King had.

"Ha! Good try!" Braum hauled back on the shield, using his thighs and rolling the action through his back muscles before slamming the Might of the North down. Frigid air erupted, turning the ground to frost just by its _appearance_. The resulting chill turned half of the team to ice at one touch, whereupon the Baron enthusiastically smashed or hurled them beyond being a threat.

"You have strength, Braum. But do you have stamina?" Illaoi reared forwards, snapping a blast at the mountain man.

Braum shivered. There was something … off about the phrase to begin with, particularly with her pre-existing – enthusiasm with Gangplank. Her current appearance was no different, but now … now it was beginning to _seriously_ put him on edge. He took the blow full on his shield, pushing it to one side. "Go home. Braum will help."

The Truth Bearer spat. "Never! Face Judgement!" The golden icon flew upwards, then smashed into the ground. Half a dozen tentacles erupted from the ground, heaving back once and then smashing forwards into Braum's unprotected side.

That stung. For the first time in months, Braum felt pain, pinpricks that told him this was not a jest. No simple test of arms, an attempt to improve ones self.

His own head came back, a red gleam entering his eye. He waited until his foe was facing him head on. "No more mister Nice Braum," the shield seemed to twist out of the way, and his right arm lashed outwards.

Illaoi was a tall woman, almost as tall as Braum. As a man, she equaled his height, possibly surpassing it. She was a Priestess of Nagakabrough, harsh to all the unworthy and disciplined to be the ultimate, unstoppable force. But Braum was the Mountain Man, Hero of the North, born on Grandfather's Shoulder and ever present aid to even the smallest lives needing help. Mountains had yielded before his strength, and that power came to its greatest peak when defending. It was simply a question of which individual was stronger.

Unstoppable force met the immobile object.

The ice shattered, unknowingly sending those encased back to the point of rebirth. Razor-sharp pieces buried themselves in the rock, slicing through surrounding vegetation.

Illaoi, Truth Bearer blinked, dazed. Her – his – eyes focused on Braum, and … smiled. Her lips moved slightly, "Good fight."

Like a titan, she fell, with a glacial slowness that made the final impact surprising when it actually happened. Compared to the avalanches that made the Rift shake, it was a small thing, but among the living, it was very different.

Braum sighed as her – his – body vanished. Behind him, the Baron Nashor rumbled a quiet question. "No, I do not hate them. They do what they must. But … I need to talk with you."

It rumbled again. "No, not about card game. You know the magic? Changed people to be … not themselves?"

The Baron looked skywards, its smaller heads whine/grunting at each other while the main head pondered the question. Its tentacles twined about themselves thoughtfully, before the entire being focused on the Mountain Man.

Braum listened carefully, picking through the various tangents to get the full story. "Ah, yes. No, to pay a debt in full is good. In such a way … not so good."

A head the size of his cottage whined, pitifully. Irritation vanished, "No, you good man. Tell me rest, and I take care of it."

Relieved, the Baron chuffed a response, and growled a complex series of instructions.

He listened, memorizing, asking the Baron to repeat sections until he had all of it. "Good. I go now. Stay safe … and do not bet so much next time!"

It was the work of a few moments for Braum to reach the edge of the Rift. A poro was already waiting, smiling up at him. It received a snack, before diving into the multi-dimensional labyrinth surrounding the battlefield, Braum close behind.

* * *

Braum stepped into the cave, feeling its magic beat against his skin. It was like a cold wind, but not as refreshing; a cold wind that insulted every accomplishment his friends had ever made.

"No." he growled. The irritated feeling was back. He didn't like being mad, it grated, felt _wrong_. Enough was wrong with the world.

Finally, the source of _wrongness_ appeared, the end of the cave. A tiny figure danced in front of a giant crystal, singing as it changed color.

Braums eyebrows lifted. "Veigar? You do this?"

The small yordle cackled, "Me? Of course! I am Evil!" His cackling carried on until the little yordle apparently realized he was the only one laughing. Twin yellow eyes glowed up at the bigger man. "Why not?"

"Because it make friends sad," Braum walked further into the chamber. "Why do it? How?"

Veigar shrugged. "Easy; all I had to do was place time-delay illusions, so my leaflets all appeared at the same time. Transformation magic is basic for a mage like me, and nigh unbreakable with _my_ power behind it!" His voice became more animated, jumping almost as fast as he was. "If the League drops to its knees, Valoran has no defenders. No champions, and it falls to me!"

"By turning men into women?" Braum turned the thought over in his mind, "And women into men?"

The little sorcerer giggled, "Don't think so _small._ That is the just the first step, Braum. Now that I know it works, have you seen the chaos? No one knows who they are, and self-identity is the cornerstone to sanity! Now that they are confused, it is only a matter of time before the entire League is mine!"

Braum sighed, and lifted his shield. One swift blow shattered the gem around which Veigar danced, releasing the arcane energy in an instant.

He could feel the difference immediately; a pressure that lifted from his. A deep stern expression came across his face; while no one had been actually _hurt_. Leaning forward, he brought his face as close to Veigar's hidden visage as possible. "Don't. Do. It. Again."

The little yordle chuckled nervously, "And why not? You can't save everyone every time!"

Braum laughed, once. "I not need to." The shield moved, faster than the perceptions; it landed a fraction of an inch before the Tiny Master of Evil, spraying ice under and into his clothing. The yordle shrieked in alarm.

The Mountain Man made sure he had the yordle's attention. "No need. I find _you._ "

He sighed and left. It had been a long day, and ended like a big joke. Some days, it was better to just watch the sheep.

* * *

 **A/N:** So this came from a request to do a gender switch. Frankly, I've never written anything like that before, so if anyone has suggestions for improvements, I'd be glad to hear them!

ObeliskX, hope you like :)


	8. Performance

The ignorant babbling of plebian minds flowed around his calm center, water swirling about a smooth stone. He focused on memories; the preparations taken, measurements of the world that had seemed so solid yesterday but equally different today. Such efforts paid dividends – on multiple occasions, the fumbling efforts of the recipients to his art the result.

Mad, some could call it, but the world changed. It was beautiful, brushstrokes of a master painting on a canvas greater than anyone could see – but visible in part to a select few.

Like today.

Jhin felt a sense of joy under his mask, and whistled a few bars from an operetta he'd been working on. He'd tried hiring composers to reduce the laborious task, but they could _never_ get it right. One poltroon had the audacity to attempt scrivening a second-rate _Largo_ from _Rio de Camino Royal._ Once. Now, of course there would be no more sacrilege from _that_ particular angle. He'd owed it to Art.

The actors waited at his side, impatient to begin their work on the stage. He chuckled. _Performance is such a lovely thing. The show must go on._

"Hey, you all right?" small words from an even smaller mind angled into his consciousness.

Tilting his mask to one side, Jhin examined the speaker. The light soprano voice – pity she never trained it – belonged to Lux of Demacia. With her reflexes, her figure, she could have dazzled tens of thousands on the stage. Add her voice, and the operatic world would have begged to simply watch her practice … and she wasted her time following her even more idiotic brother, while pining after the thick-headed Ezreal. Anyone with the wit of a louse would realize what treasure she held.

Still, she knew what she wanted, and her life made for an interesting tale. Perhaps a play would be better? But then – what type? A tragedy, or a comedy?

"Nothing less than perfect, thank you," He gave her a courtly bow. Acting was not merely what one _did_ , it was what one _was._ "And yourself?"

She giggled at his mannerly address. "Doing well, thank you!"

The gong sounds and she ran for her position, gracefully loping across the pavestones of Summoner's Rift. He watched her movements, mentally calculating the best method for capturing her story in words – yes, a tragedy. _The woman that stole the hearts of many, spurning all but the one that would not accept her. Drama, excitement, and an unsettlingly personal end … or not._ The summary would be complete after he'd thought on the problem some more.

"Have a care, Ionian. Keep your eyes on the enemy, not my sister." A harsh, grating voice cut into Jhin's concentration. For a moment, he thrilled at the chance to add to the repertoire … then cursed inwardly as he recognized it. Garen, stone-head of Demacia, vaunted leader of the armies. A single shot, and the fool's head would be removed from the idiocy it spewed. Thousands would cheer at the extermination of such a callous ingrate, another obstacle to the Great Dance obliterated.

Yet if he killed Garen, there would be no foil for Katarina, and the forces of Noxus would be less fixated on their main foe – Demacia. What better poetry was there, than the saga of two powers at war, a forbidden romance, and death to the deserving? Of course, depth would have to be added with the demise of entire towns, adding an appropriate ambience – which could be arranged. There were so many details in creating a true Great Work, but it was all worth it. But … even if it dealt with people like the in-artistic cretins?

Jhin reluctantly nodded once; this was Art. His own preferences would have to stand aside … there were so many things greater than self. A little sacrifice, and the pain was worth it.

"Good." Garen, possibly misunderstanding his role, took off, headed in a straight line for the highest path. Miniature golems scrambled to remove themselves from his path, rejoining formation only after the juggernaut had passed.

Shaking his head, Jhin began his own trek, seeking the woman whom would offer sanctuary in this engagement. Lux, Guardian of Light – an excellent title.

He found her dancing a few steps near the steep walls of the outermost turret, and marveled again at her grace. The ballet world had suffered such a loss. She smiled, asymmetric features calling for improvement … but he resisted. The tale had started and Art had begun the chapter.

Further down the avenue, Jhin spotted Detective Caitlyn, the intellectual counterpart to the unthinking clod Officer Vi, and current partner with the – unthinking but durable – brute Nautilus. Her small frame, superimposed on the massive stature of the great being, still held a threat in the deadly force of her long rifle.

Respectfully, Jhin gave the duo a bow. Here was a tale within a tale, a song inside a song. The saga of the Light Guardian incorporating the Beauty and the Beast, a platonic version of an old classic.

He could see the detective's dedication to her part, in the way her mouth tightened as he approached, and the raising of her shoulders. Nautilus stepped in front of her, foiling Lux's entangling light. Jhin fired a round, beginning the countdown.

 _One._

Sidestepping, he avoided the detective's counter-snipe, an efficient shot that damaged his golems while forcing him to move out of line. The geometry was exquisite, maximizing impact for minimal effort. Jhin responded by shifting position, ensuring Lux took another golem, destroying the tiny automaton's imbecilic torso.

A lotus trap, designed to blend with its surroundings, flew from his hand to land within the dense shrubbery. A hint of danger, heightening the tension. With a quiet signal, Lux responded, mimicking an injured warrior, limping backwards into the concealing shrubbery, wavering from side to side.

The sharp-eyed sniper immediately followed, but retained the cunning native to her occupation. Rather than obtaining the most efficient attack path, she entered the bushes, firing a scintillating blade through its dense vegetation, actually harming Lux. Jhin fired in response, guided by the hextech totem Lux had left behind.

 _Two._

Jhin trotted a quick pair of steps to one side, avoiding the crudely flung anchor. Nautilus showed no emotion at the missed strike, moving instead to crush a golem with the blunt weapon's handle. But just behind the massive being's back, Caitlyn stepped onto the lotus trap. He raised his weapon once more, smiling under his mask as he sent a blood-red round into the detective's tight corset-style tunic.

 _Three._

She grunted at the impact, reacting. Instantly, Jhin moved, rolling as the detective launched an entrapment projectile to drive herself back. The moment she fired however, was two moments after Lux's coruscating magic erupted, freezing her in place directly atop the rapidly detonating mine.

The numbers aligned, stopping the universe in a single, effortless point of existence. The order of sustainable procreation - two parents and children - the number of seasons and cardinal direction; the elements of the universe – all combined in the same perfect number.

 _Four._

The final shot detonated while the detective remained unmoving. Taking advantage of her motionless state, Jhin flicked a grenade, calculating its bounce so the partial discharges inflicted damage on Nautilus as well. The trap and grenade detonated simultaneously, releasing Caitlyn only for her to be seized by the stunning force of Jhin's secondary, a paralyzing impact round. That, followed by a second entrapment by Lux ended Caitlyn's role in the present scene, leaving an enraged Nautilus to be battered into submission in a hail of magic and bullets.

With both champions – _villains_ – he corrected himself. A tale held champions for the protagonist, and villains for the antagonist. With both _villains_ removed from the tale, the golems stood no chance, disintegrating under his perfectly aimed fire.

There was even enough time to damage the construct that gave atrocious design a bad name, the turret for the villainous side. Its architecture was the result of what had to have been criminal behavior, with bribed officials willingly turning a blind, jaundiced eye from the insulting expectoration in the face of Art.

He laughed. Victorious in the first exchange, dealing damage to the worst offenders, and yet all part of merely the beginning threads of an epic tale. The little skirmish could be won or lost – the battle itself could go to either side for all the story wished. But how the players comported, their mien and actions, unfolded the tale to its fullest extent.

* * *

 _Endgame_

"The play is in its closing moments," Jhin deftly tossed another trap under the feet of the oncoming hordes. Golem minions, in their tasteless attire slowed under its magical influence, expiring by the handful. Another grenade bounced among the remainder, finishing its performance with the lightest of caresses on his next target.

The targeting reticle centered on the approaching warrior's face, then drifted lower to the left kneecap. A shot, and the man stumbled, murder in his eyes.

"You wanted to kill me back then," Jhin used the deep, rich tones only the most consummate of actors could attain. The show demanded nothing less. "You will learn – art cannot be killed."

The ninja snarled, vanishing into the ether, projecting a shadow of himself towards Jhin. To one side, Illaoi appeared, the overstated prop she bore lashing tentacles at his feet. Attacked by flanking efforts in a single maneuver left Jhin with a single option: create beauty in his own, inimitable style. To whit, witty banter.

"When you speak," he addressed the towering form approaching at a run, "I don't hear a god … I hear an idiot babbling."

The woman's complexion didn't change, but her sense of dignity revealed itself in her stride's increased tempo. Her snarl, worthy of being remembered in a tale to frighten small children, echoed his sentiment. "Watch your mouth, or I will slap the soul out of you!"

He sighed to himself, launching the third shot of four. Finding an equal took so much effort; was it really so difficult to compose a proper script? He noted the warrior-priestess's movements, constantly shifting with the tidal forces at her command. A thought struck, inspiring a dry chuckle. "And here I though _diamonds_ were a girl's best friend."

Zed's shadow appeared from the mists, blades reaching for his throat. Jhin rolled to one side, tucking himself under a towering structure's protective embrace. Ugly though it was, he could appreciate its defensive countermeasures. The fourth shot, and the drama of the moment revealed his opportunity.

Whisper unfolded itself into his grasp, its lethal stretch coming to bear. "An understudy cannot stop me," he murmured. The stock cuddled into his shoulder, electrifying every nerve with strength. At the far end of its length, Illaoi's pupils dilated; he centered on their black depths and stroked the trigger.

 _One._ The first shot, the rising crescendo of a new work rang out. It impacted Illaoi's face, stunning her movements into a slowed reaction.

 _Two._ The second shot, aimed precisely between her collarbone and the plastron armor protecting her heart.

 _Three._ The climax approached, a single squeeze of the hand, less than four pounds of pressure. But … what was this? Illaoi's eyes rolled into her skull, falling as she collapsed in a pile of aetheric energy.

But what was the fourth? How could this have happened?

Jhin blinked, stunned. Rarely had there been a lack of requirement for his final shot, the _Curtain Call._ The number of times could be counted on the toes of a golem's feet – less than four.

The soft glow of another protective magic by Lux enveloped his own form. The defensive cocoon embraced him, like a blanket drawn over a child's head during a night storm. Contrasting to that motion, he noticed – out of the corner of his eye – the dark ninja Zed erupt from the mists, blades poised for his heart. _Drama, excitement, your tragedy shall indeed be an Epic, Guardian of Light!_

 _Four._ The final blast vented from Whisper's far end, slowing time once more as the ninja attempted to twist away. Perfection could not be denied, however, and the shot ended the man's brief, yet impressive, soliloquy.

Far over the distance, Jhin could see the tell-tale glow of the antagonist's nexus being destroyed. It was good, a performance to be commended – yet held room for improvement.

He sighed, packing away Whisper into its place. The curtain was descending, applause and cheers the inevitable result. It was only to be expected; he was the Virtuoso, after all.

 _fin_

* * *

 _A/N: A little snippet from the mind of Jhin. Fun to write, but dangerous to maintain._


	9. AFK

Tallzies lived everywhere, talked too much. Short ones scurried and hopped around the slow-moving tallzies with all the speed they needed. Tallzies didn't talk right. Didn't hunt right. Didn't smell right.

He wasn't a tallzie. That made him special.

Gnar knew this. Knew it the same way he'd known Fuzzy-Burning-Smell was the son of Fire-eyes, his sister. He knew it in the same way Stalks-Prey-Tiny-Death was the son of Evil-Day, son of Blinks-At-Nothing's second mate.

Everyone descended from their ancestors, and Gnar knew them all. Why couldn't they?

It had been explained by Big-Generous-Hairless that the reason why Big-Shouting-Sky-Voice boomed overhead, scaring the birds, was to warn everyone that fighting was happening. Why? Fighting meant surprise, meant blood-in-teeth-terrify … no one actually died.

That meant this was playfight.

Gnar bounced over Giggles-Glowing-Stick-Stopper, hearing her laugh as he passed her. He responded in kind, shaking the Throw-Stick so its adornments rattled, buzzing in time with the chants. Giggles-Glowing-Stick-Stopper laughed again, requiring Gnar to initiate the Dance-of-Protection, warding himself and his incompetent companion against attacks from the Grass-Sneakers. The sound of their rapid departure, fleeing his precise movements and calls, brought a wide smile to his face. The other yordles had an instinctive aversion to Grass-Sneakers, and held the bare minimum of instinctive motions necessary to repel the beasts. He, on the other hand, had known the Shaman-Stomps-Snakes-With-Screaming, and could repel them from the entire arena for days at a time.

A pity the old man hadn't been stuck in the frozen-cold-wall with him. The man had a gift for words.

More rustling alerted him to incoming opponents from the far side of the arena, trying one last time to sneak through the back channels to the weakest areas. He flourished his stick at Giggles-Glowing-Stick-Stopper, signaling his ebullient sidekick to prepare herself for imminent combat.

She giggled, and began performing the Dance-for-Confusing-Observers. It certainly confused him; first she dropped her weapon, then began twirling presenting her unarmored back to every angle. That wasn't being silly, that had to be a part of a cunning plan. A distraction, like when hunting Tasties.

The plan worked. Frowning-Eagle-Eye was focusing completely on the twirling antics of Giggles-Glowing-Stick-Stopper, and completely missed his presence.

Cheerfully, Gnar tossed his Throw-Stick, whacking Frowning-Eagle-Eye across the forehead before running to intercept its return trajectory. The woman cried out in surprise – it couldn't have been pain – and Giggles immediately snapped the Glowing Stick to hand.

Gnar hopped over the nearest Walking-Clay, nimbly evading Eagle-Eye's death scythe. It was almost flirtatiously close, but she was no yordle; he'd have to let her down gently if it turned out her pursuit was romantic.

Bushes rustled once more, betraying the presence of yet another Grass-Sneaker. Gnar decided to take care of this one personally, crushing its vermillion-striped head since it couldn't take a hint.

"Gnar? Where are you going?" Giggles called after him; he didn't respond. Her simplistic vocabulary was not capable of comprehending the information-rich linguistics he was accustomed to using. Why, just two weeks prior, after what _should_ have been enough time for her to acquire the basics, he'd wished her a good morning, commented on the weather, and slyly noted the presence of Ezrael's token-of-favor on her epaulet.

She'd thought he'd sneezed.

No, only Big-Generous-Hairless truly knew how to speak. Hunts-With-Talons understood – after a fashion – but didn't really appreciate the subtle nuances a born speaker could employ. Now, with the majority of Tallzies slapping each other at the Giant Shiny, this was the perfect time to do a little hunting.

He snickered three short exhalations plus a prolonged laughing inhalation, the traditional start to a hunt, and set off.

Paths led under the overgrowth, trails made by ancient beings. The Summoner's Rift was known – even in his own time – as a place for combat. Safe routes, for maintenance and recall were evidently needed. Faint indentations, the remains of feet older than his own, marked the sides. Other marks, newer than that begged his glance, inviting him to read their story.

There was no time for that.

The Grass-Sneaker, alarmed at his sudden appearance, ducked away, deeper into the tunnels. Gnar followed, rattling Throw-Stick. It took precision, to run and imitate the Chalker-Stalker, but he had practiced with his brothers for many moons. _They_ knew how to hunt, the venomous creatures that dwelled still in stolen homes.

Ahead, the Grass-Sneaker redoubled its pace, no doubt sensing the impending tramp of doom. Gnar hurtled forwards, hopping over the nearest obstacle to bounce off the reptile's head, landing on all fours facing it from a completely unexpected angle. It reared back, poised to strike, but Throw-Stick made a perfect arc, its painstakingly etched ironwood tip striking just above the uvula in the creature's mouth. Practice and experience paid off, the blow sending the snake's head upwards while the weapon rebounded to Gnar's hand. He made one more pass, shoving the blunt end forwards, crushing the Grass-Sneaker's skull at its weakest point.

Business done, Gnar hustled onwards. The route led beneath the Acid-Spitter, towards the concealing shrubbery that separated the river from the main mid-path. He stopped there, sniffing. The pheromones given off by She-Cat were strong there … along with the musk of – he sniffed again. Deeply, a crawler had confused the scent, but Bear-Bird-Beast-Man had been there too. Both of them; often.

He shrugged, moving on. When those two decided to press-face, he had no objections. Or support. The only benefit was that it sometimes distracted other champions from the True Hunt.

Then, the stench tickled his nostrils, instantly flaring straight to his mind. _Nest._

Faster now, he pushed onwards, ignoring the sounds of frantic battle overhead. A terrified poro scrambled past, falling over itself in the opposite direction. Gnar stepped around the tiny-fluffy, wordlessly vowing revenge for its terror.

But then, _then_ he could see it. The redoubt, meticulously constructed to defend against the pestilence now filled with the vermin. Vexations lesser than their Acid-Spitter brethren, but greater than the pathetic Grass-Sneakers. Void-Parasites, over a thousand of them.

Anger flared within his heart. What had the yordles been doing, to allow such an infestation a foothold?

Stamping his feet, he began the Battle-Blood step, segueing into the Wrath-of-Ancestors statement. Emphasizing every third step with a grinding heel-toe twist gave the vermin notice this was a battle with No Quarter. None would survive the encounter, or he would die trying.

Mocking hissing came from the grate, amusement at his apparent temerity.

Gnar's eyes narrowed, the mystical energies beginning to flow. Void-Parasites had gone too long without facing a true Son. The hissing sound gradually died away as the light surrounding him grew exponentially. He danced faster, pounding his feet into the ground. Step by step, he worked himself in to the Blessed Battle Fury.

Enough was enough.

With an earth-shattering roar, Gnar hurled his now-massive body at the Void-Parasite den. Glifner-steel, forged to defy the elements of nature for over ten millennia failed against his rage. The door collapsed, its fall sending a wind through the inner chambers. Then, there was nothing but the Battle, the Pests and the Song-of-Fury running through his veins.

Stone cracked, Void Parasites fell by the dozen. What furniture had resisted the ravages of time exploded into splinters, flung about the room like Throw-Stick. Without its resilience, unfortunately.

In minutes, half the population was gone. The remainder began to panic, desperately flinging themselves at his bulk. Gnar swatted the tiny bodies aside, chuckling as they broke at his touch. All too soon, the power enabling his physical growth ebbed … but it was still perfect timing. Individuals of a depleted Nest were difficult to pick off in the Blessed Battle Form.

Throw-Stick was perfectly situated for that problem.

Cackling to himself, Gnar sent Throw-Stick into the last few Void-Parasites, ending their miserable existences. Minute shifts in his grip ensured the terminal blow was as painless as it was final.

Satisfied, Gnar hopped outside, giving himself a vigorous shake. Ectoplasm was sticky; a good dust-bath would solve things nicely.

He was met with an irritated cry. "Where have you been? We almost lost the Nexus. If it hadn't been for Lux, we wouldn't have …"

Gnar tuned out Complains-Without-End. Giggles-Glowing-Stick-Stopper had done her job, and he had done his. The memory of the battle filled him with a happy glow; Throw-Stick rattled once, punctuating the emotion.

"Are you listening to me? What were you thinking?" Gnar rolled his eyes, flipping his weapon from one side to the other. Tallzies talked too much. Good thing he wasn't a Tallzie.


	10. Time Waits for No One

_Fifth of Grune, Year of the Screaming Salamander_

 _2:59:58_

 _Time is wasting._ That saying came from his father, a man whom had both passed on long before, and at the same time, lived. _Temporal dysplasia_ , that terrible illness affecting the grand total of one man among all other men, had rendered his mind unable to differentiate the standard chronological order of time.

Zilean shook his head, sending the gray/black hairs wafting in the after-effect. Since his rescue, the occurrences had become more and more infrequent – or occurring less and less if you thought of it backwards – but there were occasional episodes. The trick lay in finding a focus point, and determining if it were receding or approaching … and if he were facing it. And if he was upright. It was always possible he would be walking backwards, away from whatever he faced, but that was unlikely. Vertical positions were also preferable, but not necessary. In any event, the end goal was to determine position in time, not space.

 _Oh yes, I remember this one._ Young Ekko, the clever inventor from Zaun, grinned at him victoriously, pulling his ripcord into the ether. The energy signature floated backward, travelling along an easily predictable path.

Sighing, Zilean considered the plethora of options available. He could stun Ekko with a timed pulse, freezing him in place – but that would risk setting off the younger man's Z-drive. So, no. Instead, he would initiate a tachyon shift around Ekko's endpoint, displacing the entirety to a more accessible location … but that would incur a massive kinetic potential, which had happened fifteen times that session already. The only reason Ekko was still alive was due to the fact that past happenings did not have future effect – if they never happened.

It sometimes paid to be capable of diverting present potential into past matters. Technically speaking, the _present_ was the future's _past._ Once you stopped believing that every present was something's future, the rest became simple.

A solution occurred, and Zilean acted. Instead of affecting the external chronosphere, he changed the _internal_ chronosphere. Shifting himself was so much easier than shifting others, anyway.

Zilean accelerated, bypassing the meandering trail Ekko's future self followed, and slowed the temporal construct just enough to arrive before it became fully corporeal. The look of utter shock on the younger man's face drew a chuckle form his young-feeling bones.

"How did you do that?" Ekko demanded. "I moved _back in time!_ Nothing goes faster than that, nothing!"

The look reminded him of dear Narcissa's face, when he proved one of her theories incorrect. She loved him for it the little minx, but couldn't resist expressing her outrage when yet another barrier to their research had been brought down. Her brilliance had been one of the reasons he'd been attracted to her in the first place; she'd been one of only three people capable of matching him, theory for theory, in the Temporal Displacement department.

Well, one of _two_. Joseph had been proven to be a mere hanger-on, intelligent when it came to rewriting others papers, but a charlatan in the end. And so very angry when Narcissa had chosen him. Perhaps that was why the summoner-knights had chosen to pay such particularly close attention to his former home. His travels through time had revealed that much.

Returning to the present, Zilean offered a noncommittal shrug. "I was already there."

"No you weren't!" Ekko stomped towards the elder Chrono-wizard. "I saw you! There was _no way you could have moved!_ How did you do it, you half-wit Piltoven excuse of a wizard?"

Even more like Narcissa than he'd thought. Evidence proved him wrong, yet he still believed his eyes, logic be damned. It brought a tear to his eye, how long had it been since he'd last seen his beloved? Two days? A century? It felt like mere hours at times, and an eternity a moment later.

"And now your smirking at me again! Blast you and all of your family to dust!"

Oh dear, he'd forgotten again. "That … already happened." Zilean tried to focus on the present, evaluating the younger man for what he was; brilliant, intelligent, wise in the ways of sciences … but still just a student. Once, he'd been a teacher, before starting the research in the old Clock Tower. Sometimes, he still was. "Your error is not in how long you could travel backward, but in what circumstances surrounded the initial pulse."

Ekko, already walking away, paused. His back remained turned to the chrono-mage, but his voice sounded curious. "Circumstances?"

Zilean smiled. "Indeed. Your time-stream conveyance is marvelous, an exquisite method of control. But the field _surrounding_ the point arrival does not account for external variables. Normalized circumstances won't require that sort of attention to detail, but with me …."

He broke off, sensing a disruption. To his knowledge – formidable as it was – there were only two possible causes of such a contamination of the timestream.

"You know what, you're just full of it, man!" Ekko started shouting at him. "You don't explain nothing, just keep talking in circles so people think you _know_ something. What happened to you was an accident, you hear me? _Accident!"_

Zilean focused on the disruption, isolating the depth of its magnitude from the patterns now oscillating through the external chromosphere. Walls, thoroughly warded against incursions of any magical intent, wavered like cloth, rippling in a non-existent breeze. The ground itself, solid bedrock for miles under the city, undulated in gentle whorls, not unlike a slow-moving river. He'd witnessed such a thing only when using his powers to their fullest capacity, something that had occurred merely seven times in his existence.

 _Existence_. It was an easier word to say than _eternity._ He was not eternal, nor was time … but within time, there were things close to that value. Or as close to it as mortal man could get.

"Wha … what's happening?" Ekko's words caught his attention. Could the space-time interruption actually be felt by someone other than himself? "Is this you? 'Cause it ain't funny! Cut it out!"

Zilean tipped his head back, extending his senses to the approaching ripples. They made contact, intensifying the movement into an agitation, the difference between a languid stream, and someone vigorously stirring the water. "Yes, it's me, but I am not doing it."

The dark-skinned youth glared at him. His next move was utterly predictable, even if Zilean hadn't been through the same situation a dozen times before. Consequently, when Ekko lunged at him with the Z-drive actuator held high, Zilean was already a handful of steps away, approaching the temporal disturbance. The energy curled out to meet him, welcoming his presence in the same way a wolf greets the master of the pack.

"You're not getting away from me again!"

He turned, slightly puzzled. This hadn't happened before, in any memory. The sight of the other time-warper, charging at him in full attack was – inspiring, to be honest. Predictable in some ways, but normally, Zilean had enough memories to fully anticipate physical trauma. It was why he'd never actually _died,_ despite his immortality.

For a given value of infinite, of course.

"Wait, you don't under—" the words couldn't come out fast enough. For the first time since his altered state, he didn't have enough _time_ to get the words out. Ekko's spanner struck the side of his head, knocking Zilean into the rippling field. But, the same momentum also drove the boy inventor into the same energy fields, joining Zilean.

Zilean deftly wove the coronal flare into a protective shield around both himself and the boy, protecting them from the worst of the destructive forces surrounding them. Inside the literal time-bubble, chronological coherence remained – cellular regeneration maintained its normal pace, heartbeats continued unabated, and so on. _Outside_ however … time shredded itself against the bubble. Solid bedrock crumbled in moments, leaving lava behind, only to reform into obsidian shards that broke apart into a fertile grassland that became desert. Massive quantities of water rushed over the bubble, turning the desert into a benthic zone, where shellfish appeared by the millions, vanishing and reappearing by the tens of thousands every moment.

"Wha … what's happening?" Ekko's voice, no longer angered, filled the bubble. Zilean was pleased to see the young man was not panicking; it was difficult enough to maintain the concentration for creating protections strong enough for two, as well as follow the signal tempting him onwards.

"We are within a temporal disruption," he grasped the younger man's shoulder with one hand. "Please move as little as possible, I am accounting for as many variables as I can, but without a Compendium, I am having to calculate mentally."

The Mohawk-haired face turned towards him once, then focused outwards again. "Mentally? What do you mean?"

Once again in the role of a teacher, Zilean adopted the more officious body posture. "Temporal Distortions are isolated points within the Space-Time Continuum that obey their own rules. I've memorized the observed behaviors that Doctors Hildebrand and Guddard created, and they account for the majority of hazardous behavior, but the chaotic nature of a disruption is – by definition – _chaotic._ " A tendril of violet light approached the bubble, and he had to break off in order to determine the proper angle by which he could deflect the unthinking assault. Child's play, he would have called it in his Clock Tower, but at this point in time … this _present_ … there was no Tower, no protective device strapped to his back. Just the sheer breadth of his intellect, and the experience gained over a thousand lifetimes.

The strain increased, throwing his protective field into a minor feedback loop. Zilean corrected the anomaly, adding a covalent loop through the upper hemisphere in case a second such event occurred. After recovering, he continued. "Travelling _through_ a temporal distortion is difficult, it takes at least five years of advanced coursework to gain the appropriate discipline."

Ekko groaned, "I'm feeling sick. How do I get off?"

"You don't!" Zilean answered cheerfully. "Don't worry, you won't have been gone any time at all."

The younger man groaned, holding onto his abdominal muscles. "Yeah, but it'll take forever to get there."

Surprised, Zilean paused in his efforts to look down at him. "That is exactly the conundrum I faced in my thesis work! Transfinite events incurring infinite sensations. Well done young man!"

Unfortunately, the young man in questions seemed entirely incapable of appreciating the genius he'd displayed. "Terrific."

[break]

Zilean braced for the final impact, as the chronal pathways terminated at the edge of his senses. The chaotic patterns began fading, withdrawing beyond their unformed selves, until barely detectable. He relinquished his grasp on the shield, decreasing the intensity until it too died out.

Near his feet, Ekko groaned. "Am I dead? I hope I'm dead, I don't want to feel this terrible and be alive …."

But, his grumbling was ignored. Zilean was too busy, examining his surroundings. They were remarkably familiar, resembling his old study almost to the same pile of books haphazardly strewn across the desks. The sky outside appeared a clear, pristine shade of blue, perfectly imitating the sky over his home town. But … that sky had been destroyed by the summoner-knights, stained a sinful gray by the unholy magics used to eradicate the town's populace.

But, as he moved closer to the window, he could see the familiar horizon. The town walls, a good three kilometers from his Tower, enchanted with runes of his own design. Any time a portion of the wall became damaged, they would activate, and restoring the affected zone to what it had been when the rune was initially carved. Even destroying the rune wouldn't cause lasting damage.

Closer, he could see the shops. The university, near the Tower, had often given much business for the local bakeries. Study halls, professor meetings, official gatherings … all relished the sweetmeats produced by the local workers. And were those students rushing out, headed back?

Overhead, the massive bell struck the hour, gears the size of a horse clicking into position. Zilean froze where he stood; it felt so _real_!

"Come now, aren't you going to greet me?" A well-known voice asked.

Slowly, Zilean turned. An exceedingly familiar face looked back at him. It was an eternally youthful look, enough lines in the eyes to indicate much sorrow – or joy – framed by graying hair that remained dark at its roots. That had been a problem; the disease made _him_ young, but the further his hair grew from its roots, the lighter it became. A decade or so spent studying the effect had been useless, although a good patent on skin restoration cream had come from the study. The benefit of immortality; you never had to hand over patents to another.

"I presume a paradox has been avoided?" he addressed the other man.

"Indeed," he responded. "You know as well as I that most of that garbage was just to scare children from playing with time."

On the ground still, Ekko forced himself to a half-kneeling position. "You … there's two of you?"

Zilean looked down at him, then up at the other copy of himself. "He has a point. Perhaps you could adopt a separate identifier, for communication purposes?"

The other Zilean chuckled. "Already accounted for. Hello young man, I am Zilean-Alpha. You already know Zilean, do you have any questions? The meeting is about to begin, and I do not want any interruptions."

Ekko pushed himself upwards. "Did I hit my head harder than I thought?"

Zilean-Alpha shook his head, smiling as he did so. "No, you are witnessing a rare event, what we are calling: 'The Causality.'"

"Catchy," Ekko muttered. "What's happening?"

ZIlean felt hope rise in his chest; he'd made plans, spent centuries refining them, writing on anything that didn't move. Then burned the plans, made new ones, and burned those too. "Have I discovered a possible cure?"

"Yes," Zilean-Alpha nodded. "We will, of course have to eradicate your memory of this event, but it will be painless, and not affect the timeline."

"Of course," Zilean felt the hope grow exponentially. "Shall we begin? Or may I have a few moments to assist my colleague?"

Zilean-Alpha raised both eyebrows. "Colleague? I do not remember Ekko of the Legends Guild being anything other than a talented amateur. Has he displayed cognitive coherence within the temporal disruption?"

"Not only that," Zilean clapped a hand on Ekko's shoulder, almost sending him sprawling, "He articulated my thesis statement for the seminal project. Entirely without coaching!"

For a moment, the other man looked dumbstruck. Only Ekko's shallow breathing, gradually getting better, could be heard above the quiet murmur from the other room. His meeting room, if memory served. "Well well … this is _indeed_ an anomaly. Perhaps the catalyst for our contingency. Certainly, we have all the time we need, or will need. No time like the present after all."

"Time is wasting," Zilean agreed. Zilean-Alpha left the room, leaving Ekko and the original Zilean together.

The window called his attention, inviting his gaze to look once more on that which had been gone for many centuries. Involuntarily, he sighed. "I have missed this."

Ekko staggered to the window, looking out its transparent pane. "Where are we? I don't recognize it."

"No reason you should," Zilean gestured, invoking a thread of his power to revive a chair that had once existed in this time frame. The thread wove around itself, winding into a delicate pattern that solidified as it moved, growing larger until it became a comfortable-looking easy chair. He sat down, marveling at the comfort. "This is my home, in Urtistan."

The boy blinked. "That place went blooey before the Rune War. How did we get here?"

Zilean shook his head. "For someone with so much talent, you are remarkably obtuse. Time travel."

"Time travel?" Ekko's eyes widened, "But … this is … like … _thousands_ of years ago! You can't travel that far, I've tried!"

Zilean waved his hand, creating another chair. This one a recalled image of what he'd seen the inventor prefer while in the Guild. He couldn't help chuckling, "You sound like my wife. She was one of the most intelligent beings I have ever encountered, but had a great deal of trouble believing that which was undocumented. Unproven. I could always depend on her to come up with a rational explanation for everything. War, peace, and all that lay between."

Rising, he strode to the window. "Those pillars of crystal? She helped make them. Urtistan is well-known for powerful defenses; I built those walls myself; it took me three days to assemble the rune-carvings. Three months of hard labor beforehand, synthesizing the cuttings I needed. Nothing will destroy those walls; even when the city falls, they will return to their former glory."

"It will fall?" Ekko's expression became puzzled. "How?"

Zilean sighed. It wasn't that he feared talking about it, but the concept seemed wrong, speaking of the past death of a loved home before it occurred. "We are in the past, Ekko. Everything you see, everything you observe, will be gone within months. Chaos, ash, rubble. Not even the superstructure shall remain. I've dreamed it every night for the past thousand years."

"Ah." The information seemed to make the boy pause. He kept glancing out the window, and back at the un-aging sorcerer. "So … how did we get here again?"

A clear voice boomed from the entrance. "That would be me, young inventor." Another copy of Zilean stood in the doorway. "Zilean-Prime, at your service. I take you are Zilean, the original?" The latter comment directed itself towards the sorcerer.

"Correct," he responded. "But perhaps we should refer to ourselves by order terms? It would reduce confusion for young Ekko here."

"Of course," Prime responded, "My apologies, I should have thought of that." For a moment, he appeared to muse, "Odd, I have no memory of needing to say that. We are on the right track. At any rate, shall we begin?"

"Inevitably." Zilean stood once more, his chair disintegrating into dust as he rose. "Ekko? Would you like to join me?"

The young Zaunian shrugged. "Not like I have anything better to do. Can't go home until you take me, right?"

"That would be best," Prime agreed. "Excessive tampering with the localized ephemeral structure would be …disastrous at this stage."

Ekko blinked. "You talk like he does," he pointed an accusing finger at Zilean. "Too many words, not enough sense."

"He _means_ ," a new voice cut in, "that if you use your device, you could cause turmoil in the timestream you need to get home."

Zilean beamed happily, "Narcissa!"

A light-skinned woman with high cheekbones entered, smiling at him. "Zil, good to see you dear. Have you been eating well? Remembering to go to bed at night?" She turned her smile on Ekko, "My husband is one of the most forgetful men you'll ever meet. Why, one night I found him chewing on a stale loaf of bread, because he'd forgotten he'd just been to the baker!"

Ekko laughed half-heartedly. When he had a chance, he sneaked over to Zilean, "I didn't know you were married?"

"Oh yes," Zilean couldn't stop staring at the woman who was his wife, but in another time. Emotion surged in his chest once more, affection, care. And finally capable of being addressed to its unrequited source. Perhaps in a few moments. "The love of my life. An anchor that kept me sane in my times of doubt."

"Be off with you," Narcissa swatted at Zilean's shoulder. "The others are waiting. I just hope the Board doesn't find out about this pseudo-paradox, they'd flip their collective lids!"

Prime scoffed. "Wouldn't take much. But she is right, leave us go."

The next room held a long table, lined with chairs. To no one – except possibly Ekko's – surprise, each chair held a copy of Zilean. Some were taller, wearing clothing utterly alien to his eyes while others appeared to be almost transparent. All were eagerly speaking with each other, forming loose groups even without moving from the table. All turned their attention to Prime and Zilean with greater or lesser interest, but inevitably with a knowing look.

Prime strode to the head of the table, and bowed. "I would like to thank me for coming. Alpha, developer of the summoning protocol, has worked tirelessly for fifteen cycles to ensure we all were capable of being here. I created the system that we will be using. Each of you will be given a part to play, and fully realize. It is time to bring Urtistan home!"

The table erupted in cheers, a strange sight for the sanest of men. Ekko flinched backwards as an aged Zilean started dancing on his chair, the copies on either side clapping, cheering him onward. "Are they all crazy?"

"No," a tired voice next to him answered. "They are celebrating. A lifetime, even an immortal's lifetime, becomes weary after an existence of regret.

He looked at the oldest-looking Zilean he'd ever seen. The old man confirmed his unspoken question, "Yes, I'm Zilean from a timeline that never regained Urtistan. My home. But, we will recombine our timelines, so that I will be able to see it once more before I die. If I can."

"Attention!" Prime bellowed. "To work!"

Ekko ducked out of the way as chairs flew across the room. Figures darted past, accelerating at inhuman speeds, some literally flying across the hall to vanish through walls and doorways. "That … is freaky. How are they doing that?"

"Time travel." Narcissa said calmly from underneath the table. "Fortunately, Zil often forgets he can go through _anything_ , so hiding under the table is a good place to be when this sort of thing happens."

Ekko gave her a wide-eyed expression. "This happens … _often?"_ the squeak in his voice could be pardoned for the stress he was under.

"Not quite this large a gathering," she corrected. After a pause while she clambered out, "There have been times when a half-dozen or so of my husband has needed extra assistance. The calculations involved," she shuddered, "Trust me when I say I would rather work them all by hand in the desert than repeat them with a dozen men like my husband. One is enough!"

"Well said!" Prime came floating back into the room. "But we've completed our task now. Are we ready?"

Ekko gaped at him. "But you just started, how could – oh. Time travel?"

"You get used to it," Narcissa tapped his shoulder comfortingly before addressing Prime. "I assume you will be doing a memory wipe on the alternate Zileans?"

Prime frowned. "I wish it were not necessary, but if they remember where they've been, they could throw off our calculations by a few hundred Piltovens."

"Wait, _Piltovens?"_ Ekko's cry caught Prime's attention.

"Yes, a Piltoven is roughly one tenth of a Zaunitican, which in turn is approximately five Hexatams." Prime explained, then shook himself. "Where was I? Oh, yes. He will not remember, but he will know when it is possible to return home. Within a few years of Zilean's time, in fact. Perhaps," he gave Ekko an evaluating glance, "Perhaps you would be interested in an apprenticeship, once Urtistan has been returned to its proper place in time?"

"No time for that now!" Zilean flew into the room, "We must leave! The Convergence will initiate within fifteen picoseconds!"

Prime nodded firmly. "Very good. And Young Ekko," he gave the inventor a formal bow, "Please do think on my offer."

"And keep an eye on my Zil," Narcissa added. "He _will_ forget to take a shower if he finds something new."

"Um," Ekko blinked, "I'll … see what I can do."

Zilean snapped his fingers, "Then here we go! Easier this time, no need for a permanent shield matrix!"

"Wait, what?" Ekko fell to his knees as the bubble once again encased himself and the ageless time-sorcerer. Just as the room began to fade, he glanced at the clock hanging on the mantelpiece over the fireplace. The time read exactly the same as it had when they'd arrived. Each hand, stationary at its point, just one second before three o'clock. As the world disappeared, he saw the second hand begin to quiver, preparing to make the quantum leap from one point in time to another.

"Hey Zil, how long have we been here?"

Zilean didn't look away from his wife, waving at him. "Not long enough my friend. Not nearly long enough."

* * *

 _3:00:00_

Ekko stumbled, darting across the ground, avoiding being crushed by a falling tree. The massive plant froze in midair, then floated back to its original place, as if it had never collapsed. He spun in place, looking around, and found Zilean walking around the behemoth.

The inventor blinked at the tree, then down at himself, then back at the tree. "Did you just … where are we?"

Zilean looked around. "Hmm, I would say in the Brecilian Forest, approximately thirty miles from Piltover." A confused look entered his eyes. "I … am sorry. Why am I here? Were we meeting for something?"

Ekko looked at his timepiece, just to confirm. His innate sense of time, honed over a young lifetime of stretching each second to its utmost had trained him well, but the sheer impossibility of what had just happened challenged even his jaded mind. Two seconds had passed.

Two.

Seconds.

"Hey, Zil," the old sorcerer's attention snapped to his face at the name. "Why don't I see you home, okay? Maybe we can talk about one of my ideas on the way?"

Zilean paused, then smiled. "That … would be good. Thank you young man." He studied the youthful man a little more carefully, "You know, I think Narcissa would have liked you. Have I ever told you about my wife?"

Ekko grinned. "Nope. But I get the feeling I'll know about her soon enough."

A wistful smile crossed Zilean's face. "I hope so, I truly hope so."

* * *

 **A/N:**

Felt the urge to write League again, and came up with this monster of a piece in two sittings. The concept of time travel isn't new, but kinda hard to get across ... always fascinating to me though. Hopefully, it stretched your imagination as much as it did mine!

C'ya down the lane


	11. Curtain Rising

_Redacted Location_

 _Ionia_

"That is our offer. Do you accept?"

He turned away from the poorly garbed priest, doing his best to keep from retching at the impossibly tailored ensemble. The abysmal truth was that he'd been forced to practice the effort, given his incarceration within the 'remediation facility' in one of the iconic temple valleys.

Looking out the window, set in the prodigiously thick wall, he could see an entire vista; a welcome sight after the gut-churning appearance of the priest's novice-grade garb. Better yet, he could see the shape of the land. Valleys in Ionia followed one of three basic guidelines: scenic, forbidding, and inaccessible. The self-righteous religious potentates overseeing certain areas of the affected regions … sometimes arrogant with reason … held themselves above the law. Not that they would actually _break_ such a regulation; it wasn't in the code of an Ionian.

Jhin sneered at the darkness. Everything had been proceeding along the path of a true epic, a saga fit to be told again and again throughout all of Runeterra. The Hunt of Jhin, filled with the cunning traps made by intelligent men, yet evaded by the still more brilliant efforts of their prey. He had managed to intercept the exertions of his pursuers with minimal effort, taunting them by virtue of their very nature. Zed's humor, Shen's joviality; why did they not see the pathos of their struggle?

Art, it seemed, was lost on the small minded. But he'd had such _hopes_ for them!

Eventually, of course, a mistake had been made. A tiny, _tiny_ trip. Letting one word stray from the script without due provocation, and the mask had slipped.

Masks were such beautiful things. Everyone wore them, but lived in denial. That was the difference between _genius_ and _mundane_. Accepting truths that few held the strength to believe. But … none of that affected his current dilemma. A delicious, savory juxtaposition of life.

He stilled. _That_ was Art. The subtle twist of fate, encircling unwitting painters to its common thread.

"I need resources," he announced without turning around. While the act of letting people see his face was perfect – naturally – he could think more easily when no one saw what nature had twisted in a parody of reality. "I have plans. Third drawer, under _double-you_. Cloth, metal, high-grade steel. None of that Demacian forge-filter offal; I have my own formula."

The voice behind him cleared its throat nervously. "Um, we can provide you with the same quality as the Hirana warriors –"

Jhin stopped the infantile prattling with a regal motion. "No. _My_ formula. Everything must be perfect. Not one misstep. Now," he turned, angling himself so the sunlight passing through the open window highlighted his figure while casting shadows across his face. "How shall I be remunerated for my … services?"

The monk – clearly no novice despite his apparel – took a breath. The everlasting Ionian control; it made the people an absolute _delight_ to obfuscate. "You are a prisoner, held here until the masters agree your condition is cured. Any aid you can provide will be counted as good behavior, considering your _last_ stint outside."

 _Ah. That._ The supposed masters of the monastery, capable of dividing stone blocks with a single blow, discern lies from truth by detecting heartbeats, and capable of divining intent from the knowledge of the soul. Those cretins held to be responsible for _him_? There was some truth to the matter, Jhin had to admit. He had seen the senior members perform incredible feats, forcing him to rewrite scenes constantly.

But they were mortal, as all beings were. "Your superiors," he lingered over the word, letting its flavor caress the listener's ears like a gentle melody, "have been unable to determine anything wrong with me. They have given their absolute best efforts, which I applaud. No, you wish me to make a performance. I am a master of my craft, and you will pay me the proper respect for my skills. I will consider the creation of my armaments to be sufficient for the opening act."

Cocking his head to one side, he gave the priest a stare. "If you wished the services of an assassin, you would have contacted Akali, the bumbling amateur, or Kennen, and her … _electrifying_ combinations. But no, you wish a work of art. A contracted performance that no one else can perform. I can do this for you, but …." He lowered his head slowly, narrowing his eyes to focus on the priest. "I trust you will make it suitably … _memorable."_

The priest backed up slowly. "We will consider your requests."

Jhin turned his back once more, facing the window, smirking. "Please, don't let me detain you."

* * *

The pieces were beautiful. Works of art, in every sense of the word. They had to be; his enforced duration within the bowels of uncultured depression had proved fruitful, in the vast number of tomes at his disposal. In their enthusiasm, he'd been given full access, and used it to the fullest extent. Metallurgy, hextechnology, music – everything had emptied itself into his cavernous imagination. The end result had been a masterful command of multiple arts.

Had he been as knowledgeable in his former career as he was _now …_ the play would have had a very different ending. But that was not now; the saga had continued, _largo_ for a time and twisting into its _Intermezzo_. Now came the _Allegro_ , fast tempo repeating earlier themes in a quickened manner.

Jhin examined the stage once more.

Below, a Noxian encampment settled across the mountain's shoulders, wrapping the night in its embrace of campfires and smoke. Rough songs, punctured by the frequent argument, drifted through the air on the quiet breeze. Tents, spreading their awnings to shelter their inhabitant from the star-studded sky, broke the flickering flames into glowing cloth panels, a screen making a mummery out of the shadow-figures moving behind the walls.

 _Exquisite._ Jhin thought. _A perfect scene for the rising curtain._ His performance entailed the tragedy of General Clavius, an overlord in the Noxian military.

" _Remove the general, reduce the pressure,"_ they had told him.

But what was the artistry in that? No, this performance needed something more. A little more _pizzazz._

For example, the Noxtoraa, arches of dark stone raised over the roads, were an affront. Certainly their aesthetic appeal could be determined as a throwback to neanderthalic predilections, a primitive exclamation of superiority. But they were just so _ugly_! The only passion inspired was that of disgust – and that of a mild quality as well, like a poorly trained animal making a mess.

Carefully, he examined the setting once more, checking the players. All stood in their approved locations … mentally deficient drones that they were. Any intelligent minion would realize the sheer ludicrousness of wearing _bright_ armor in shadow. Such a flaw was for a hero, the protagonist of the tale, not incapable fools.

"Are you going to start soon?" an impatient voice, raking fingerboards down the back of his soul growled behind Jhin.

"It's very simple," Jhin responded. Any irritation was kept from his voice with consummate ease. "When I shoot, the performance begins."

The monk huffed. "Then shoot already!"

Resisting the urge to reduce the world's stupidity quotient by one, Jhin merely nodded. "I will return when the sun sets. Look for me 'ere the day breaks anew."

Unimpressed, the monk retreated to a small shelter, hidden beneath the shrubbery. _Shrubbery_ ; what an excellent word. One could feel almost as if they could nestle within the letters comprising the body of the term – an artistic interpretation of a non-literal phenomenon.

 _Focus,_ Jhin scolded himself. _The first of many performances!_

Turning, he slunk into the underbrush, making his way to the predetermined point. It, like everything else, was perfectly selected. Noxian tactics decreed a surveillance strand three ranks deep, fifteen lengths apart by the road, and fifty lengths staggered in counter-clockwise patterns. Simplicity itself for a student of tactics. The work divulging _that_ particular fact had been – as its kin – absorbed, and removed so that no unworthy soul would desecrate its pages.

His chosen site held every possible advantage, and none of the detracting factors applicable for the performance. With gentle hands, he picked up his mask, and placed it over his face, pausing just one moment to view the world outside its shelter one last time. _And now, the curtain … rises._

As appropriate to the theme, his opening blast was a mere point-blank affair, removing the dunderhead's malfunctioning cranial matter before continuing on to the warning system in place. Hex-balanced wires spun, whirring their emergency preparedness in alarm.

Jhin danced backwards, lightly flicking a pair of Lotus traps to the ground. As expected, footsteps charged in from the layered surveillance network charged in, tripping on the triple-layered metal objects. A single destabilizing blast, and three men were rendered immobile, free to witness their fate in the last two seconds of their lives.

Casually, Jhin underhanded a bouncing grenade, letting the explosive ricochet off the metallic helmet of yet another scout. Metal operated as a perfect conductor for most energies, which was why padding had to be installed. Concussive force equivalent to a charging _rathak_ in heat, concentrated to the focus point of a fingertip, shredded the intended effect of said padding into a fine red mist. An interesting effect, given the greenery and dull stone-gray colors.

"Hmmm, a pity." Jhin studied the effect, memorizing the details for future works. "I wish blood came in more colors. Still, it shall function."

Whistling to himself, he strode along the scout path, ignoring the screams behind as the Lotus traps he'd planted before activated their payloads. Further study of Noxian tactics revealed more weaknesses; particularly in their hostile approach vectors.

Warmth, coming from _Whisper's_ barrel, transmitted itself to his hand. It felt like happiness; purpose in action, the very reason it had been made. Three parts of the most superbly designed plans inexistence, each deadly in their own way, united in the unanimous fourth perfection that was the Curtain Call.

Speaking of which.

Jhin spun in place, letting the cloak flair to one side as Whisper extended to its full length. A thrill ran up his spine, a scene for the most dramatic opening. _The audience sees its protagonist revealed, a lone artist, striving to perfect his art. One._

The shot exited _Whisper_ , arcing between three trees before impacting its target: an oversized Noxian soldier wielding a staff for no doubt sorcerous deeds. Evil would be vanquished, the foul practitioners of an unholy order scorched from the land. But next time, perhaps the mage could be the hero, using the deified gifts to defend his countrymen? It bore thinking about.

 _Two_. The second shot missed every target – except the important one. A tracker, checking for signs at the back of the column fell silently, the delicate nerve endings within the spine severed as surely as if that Demacian lout Garen had brought his oversized meat cleaver across. Yet _Art_ had accomplished the same task from a range of a hundred yards, without the unnecessary shouting and machismo.

 _Three._ The third shot traveled far over the inconsequential grouping below, going on to devastate a supporting cart on the main road, carrying supplies intended to serve the Noxian military. Five casks of wine, red as blood and half as viscous, poured out the holes he'd punched, staining the ground with the life-essence of long-dead plants.

That left his final shot, the most devastating attack for the most important of targets. Or perhaps, merely a statement of superior thinking? There would be time for the penultimate scene later. He'd even planned for it.

Nodding, Jhin focused, and applied the faintest of pressure to _Whisper's_ trigger. The final round burned red in the gloom, drawing a crimson line across three soldiers before terminating in the breastplate of yet another angry wall of meat. _Four._

The happenstance of the accidental fourth brought a smile under his mask. Four really was the perfect number.

Whistling again, he resumed his trek upwards. The show had begun, but there was still more work to be done. A true artist knew the difference.

* * *

Chaos, the twin of order, but opposite in inflection. While order kept the world spinning, chaos gave it a reason to do so. The chain-of-command gave structure to the rank and file, while the chaos of battle formed the impetus for the chain to exist in the first place. Both could exist independently of the other, but together, masterpieces could be written.

Jhin mentally reviewed his script. The outer perimeters had been breached in a dozen places, forcing the general alarm to be sounded. _Days_ of tedious preparation had paid off, resulting in a full-scale alert, horns blaring at the sky in defiance of the anticipated counter-attack.

That made him snort. _Counter-attack._ As if the Ionians could discover the wherewithal to adapt their inadequate mindsets to a new art. The elite treasured the stale, unimaginative works, and treated the genuine classics as a _lesson_ when they should have let it _live._

"Act two, scene three. Cue the General," he whispered to himself.

Right on cue, the Noxian general stepped out of his tent. Clavius was a tall man, but not broad. From his research, Jhin knew the man had arisen to prominence by preying on the weak, and challenging the tired, out-moded responses. _He_ , was an artist of the battlefield, arranging his rows in battle the same way a painter arranged his inks. Yet he was still hamstrung by the unceasing prattle of inferiors, bringing his genius down to unacceptable depths.

It was a privilege, to watch the artist at work. Yet the performance demanded a tragedy, the helpless struggle against things unknown. To fall, flail at the world, and then, fail.

 _That_ was his task.

Jhin watched the man issue commands, striking about him with disciplinary action. Officers jumped to even higher attention, scurrying to obey. More traps, shredding through the tents of the outermost bivouacs, spurred the activity to continue. Yet despite those setbacks, the army gathered itself together, bunching up protectively so that the mages could cast their shielding spells over more and more people. The consequence of such meant that the traps he'd so carefully placed did little or nothing against them.

Like a massive beast, the army marched forwards, clearing traps with the experience of practiced campaigners. Abandoning the camp must have hurt, but the army could afford new gear, could steal it from the locals. Jhin didn't care; the purpose had been achieved, the play continued.

* * *

Following the caravan of armored warriors proved exceedingly simple. Through ample preparations, the occasional soldier fell, victim to a delayed-action trap, or a long-range assault by _Whisper._ Like a bear, harried by the impudent efforts of a jackal, if one considered a classical approach. Or a guerrilla attack, provoking the much larger military power to do what it always did in times of duress: take the attack to the nearest population center.

But first, the _Compendium On War_ stipulated securing borders, a narrowly defined statute requiring old territory to be reconquered. To do so, the Noxian army had to return to the most recently defeated region, a town less than five miles away as the raven flew, but over twenty as the jackal ran. Right through the mountain range forming the backbone of Ionia. Given a need to regroup, they would stop soon ….

Jhin eyed a soldier crawling through the rocks, attempting to reach the main body before it was too late. The trail left behind the crawling form was copious evidence such effort would fail. No one could lose that much blood, and survive.

Yet again he found himself wishing for a more variable coloration. _But_ , he reminded himself as he allowed the young hero to finish his own tale, _limitations are what makes art great. Without limits, there would be no records, and without records, nothing would have been written._ A firm nod solidified his opinion. If he had to accept such petty limitations as blood color in order to receive the Gift of Art, it was a price he would pay ten times over.

 _Soon,_ he tracked the caravan's path, watching it progress to a stronghold they could defend. The halfway point between the as-yet-unconquered capital city and the terrorized common lands lay in a mountain pass. Their intended route was obviously to the spine of the Grandfather's Shoulder, a place where their backs would be to solid stone, steep precipices on both sides, and a narrow path leading to the main road. No one could climb up the sides without being seen a mile away, and no one could climb _down_ from behind. The narrow approach was easy to guard, and could be protected by a mere handful of men. Indeed, such feats had been performed before, defeated solely by the superior numbers of the Noxian army most recently.

Now, they emulated those that had passed before, passing through the narrow gap well ahead of their pursuers. Companies of archers fortified themselves with rock, watching the passage as the last soldier passed over.

 _Perfect,_ Jhin checked the scenery yet again, examining a point where the mountain stone shift to snow at higher elevations. To Ionians, warfare was simple. To the Noxians, war was simple. Yet it was a simplicity that was both elegant, and deceptive. Someday, he would write a book, describing war as an art, an incredible fusion of muscle and mind, combining the intricacies of nature and man.

But for now, he would settle for fulfilling his contract.

 _Act Three, scene four._ He raised _Whisper_ , sighting in on the main camp. Some of the tents had been preserved, including the General's. With the sunset coming soon, he could see the general's outline on the canvas of his tent, a perfect target.

Sentries, positioned at every conceivable point, looked appealing as well. But they were not the star of the show, that was the general … but they too, served a purpose.

 _One._ He picked off a sentry on the upper slope. The crack of _Whisper_ boomed through the mountainside like thunder.

 _Two._ Another sentry fell, throwing panic into the forward ranks. The script called for such a thing, chaos in the elements near the narrow pathway.

 _Three._ Perfection was near; the third shot passed over their heads, impacting with the snowline hundreds of lengths above the camp. Within the camp itself, activity boiled. They knew what the sound of impending doom was like, and fought against nature itself to get away from it.

Jhin waited a heartbeat, and saw general Clavius exit his tent. The general squinted out at the narrow approach, then seemed to note the positions of his fallen sentries, following the angle their fallen bodies pointed. The general's head angled upwards, then froze, before looking back to where the sound of Jhin's gunfire had emanated. Ever so slightly, his head dipped, a gesture of respect, acknowledgement to a superior foe.

Standing up, Jhin gave the general a bow of his own, honoring the artist. Dedication to his craft, among such rabble, deserved recognition. Then, he knelt once more and fired the final shot.

 _Four._

The round, crimson as it had always been, streaked over the camp, carrying itself farther than any standard weapon could follow. Hextechnology was capable of incredible things, and in the hands of a master, could achieve that which mere mundane minds considered impossible. The Fourth shell, the symbol of perfection, struck the snowline and exploded with a force inconceivably contained within the fist-sized shell. It had too; magic would not accept a lesser role, not if it were to uphold its place in an epic saga with Jhin.

He watched as the first few pebbles fell, soon followed by larger rocks and chunks of snow. Within moments, boulders joined their lesser kindred, in turn urging their larger cousins to continue their quest. Magical shields sprang into position, desperately trying to defend the bearers from the mountain's wrath, but to no avail.

The roaring crescendo matched the music in Jhin's mind, a glorious symphony reaching conclusion. Boulders rebounded, deflecting through squads of soldiers, ploughing through loose groups like a druffalo through a marshland. Nothing stood in the way of the might avalanche, Nature's response to an artfully placed jab.

As the last of the avalanche fell, Jhin turned away, and stopped abruptly. The same monk from before stood behind him, eyes wide, staring at the devastation behind Jhin. Instinctively, he turned slightly, letting the setting sun cast his mask in shadow. "The _finale_ has reached a conclusion; the performance, at an end."

"Indeed, a remarkable … performance." the monk closed his mouth with effort. His eyes traveled along the route the army had passed, dozens of bodies littering the path. "Why did you not kill the general immediately? With your skill, you could have easily removed him at the start."

Jhin shrugged, sliding the still-warm barrel into place. The feel of a warm gun made him shiver in happiness. "You asked for a tragedy; he died fighting the gods themselves, struggling against fate. But I tire of explaining art, it should be evident." One hand gestured at the still-settling pile of stone and ice. "Your task is accomplished. I trust my next performance will be … suitably compensated?"

The monk glanced at the avalanche site once more. "Yes … yes, I believe so. The Noxians have many armies, and this was a small one. Perhaps you would be interested in a contract on the mainland, in Noxia?"

The thought made Jhin smile broadly under his mask. It had gone better than he'd hoped; freedom, the power to create Art of his own, and the option of becoming paid for such a service … remarkable indeed. "Noxia? I believe the land holds much promise. I could create a masterpiece people would be _dying_ to see."

* * *

 **A/N: Written in two bursts, in two days. Inspiration struck; whom am I to refuse the muse? Art indeed has its place. I hope you enjoyed this little work. Especially Endtothegame, whom has excellent taste.**

 **Requests? Suggestions? Review and PM. I don't bite. Unless asked ;)**


	12. Sands Shall Rise

The Sands Shall Rise.

It was what his father had taught him, and he grandfather before him, on to the furthest reaches of Shuriman heritage. The meaning had been more subtle in their day, with a simple implication: sand overcame all. Even the wet stuff found near the seaside, clingy and wont to creep into places that should never see the light of day.

 _Arise_. The statue molded itself from loose granules, coalescing into a life-size replica of himself. At one point hubris would have been the cause, sheer arrogance making the construct to share his visage, each opponent witnessing death at _his_ hand. Now, it was a symbol: the Emperor Reborn standing for his people. What had once been the hidden power resulting from lies and deception stood before all, as relentless as the tides no ocean could remove. Odd how nautical terms kept floating to the surface of his mind – and there he went again.

Across the battlefield, he could see his ancient foe. Once, they had been more than friends, _brother_ he had called him. Xerath, the no-name slave whom had opened his mind to such inconceivable heights. Azir himself had gifted Xerath his name, in return for the slave's selfless aid, a title from the texts meaning: _one who shares._

Tightening his grasp on his staff, Azir vowed revenge once more, promising retribution on the betrayer. Even if, in retrospect, it might have been deserved. It was the principle of the thing.

But for now, there was a debt to repay that held nothing quite so satisfactory as instructing foes on the follies of betrayal.

"Arise." He gestured at the ground again, imprinting his will on the unthinking grains. Silicate particles rearranged themselves, shaping their patterns around the design foremost in his thoughts. Swiftly, they mashed themselves into the construct, rising above the common grain by virtue of his association alone.

"Yay!" a small voice cheered his efforts. "That looks fun! Let me try!" A deep growl punctuated her words, making a shiver run down Azir's spine.

On the far side of his creation, he could see Xerath's energy still in the presence of a shadow bear. Even the greatest mages of his day had failed to successfully tame one of the massive beasts, yet the _child_ had not only done so, but had done it to such a degree as to befriend the creature. Stepping back, Azir permitted the bear, taller than him by a full span whilst on all fours, to approach the sand castle he had built.

The great bear sniffed at the minarets, failing to dislodge a single grain. A grumbling moan, so deep as to make Azir feel the reverberations in his sandals, and the bear turned aside. Behind him the diminutive form of Annie Hastur, the so called 'dark child,' skipped nearer. She giggled, tracing an admiring finger down the rough side. Her touch futilely attempted to make a dent in the material, scratching back as she stroked.

"Ouch," she yelped. A scowl furrowed her cherubic features. "Too sharp."

A rumbling sound made the remnant of mortal still hidden within Azir's mind recoil. Primitive, lizard-reactions automatically assessed how many angles of retreat were available, and failing that, what venues of attack presented themselves to a sufficiently terrified mind. Decades of training held true however, cemented in place through the passage of centuries. Shurima, ancient city long gone, had held terrors similar to the shadow bears.

Tibbers loomed over Azir a moment later, easily looking down on the tall Emperor from a seated position. The rumbling sound, resonating from deep in its chest did not stop, but caused no apparent strain. If anything, it looked as if the massive creature was holding itself in check, restraining everything but the barest hint of raw power behind a velvet-covered exterior. A massive, half-ton, irritated carnivore in velvet.

 _Then again,_ he allowed, _I don't exactly recall a beast of such size with the full backing of a mage. No one from the texts …._

Heat rushed across his exposed skin, bringing his attention back to the sand castle. The fire surrounding its exterior danced strangely, forming images of teddy bears and candies in their undulating shadows, before flickering away into nothing. Looking down, he saw Annie smile at the now-crystalline castle, identical to what he'd created in every way … but translucent.

The little girl looked up at him, smiling innocently before ducking slightly to enter the castle. Her giggling came through the solid walls as if nothing were there, eerily floating through the air. "Come on Mister Tibbers, playtime!"

Grunting, the shadow bear rose to all fours, giving Azir a final dismissive snort before following. As it reached the doorway, a small hand reached out, touching its paw. In an eyeblink, the colossal beast shrank down to the size of a common teddy bear … albeit one with button eyes that followed your movements, and emitted the faintest of flame in its threads.

Heaving an undetectable sigh of relief, Azir cast a glance across the beach. Some of the female members of the League were cavorting amongst the surf in what could be termed – if twisting the definition of the term to its absolute limits – clothing. A picnic basket, provided from somewhere he knew not, rested in preparation for future dining engagements; innocent by itself, but slightly unnerving at the moment. It hadn't been there before he'd turned his back.

Dry laughter met his ears. Scowling, he turned his back more fully on Xerath. _This is the_ last _time I wager babysitting duties._ The promise flowed through his mind. _Absolutely the last._

* * *

 ** _A/N: There you go, and by the end of the month! Let's see what else I can come up with ..._**


	13. Feasts

Holidays were strange. Entire days spent in familial squabbling, disputes over which historic figure did what, or any number of supposedly peaceful discussions creating fuel for dissension. They were necessary; how else would disputes continue for years without the annual remembrance of the initial cause – accurately recalled or not?

On the other hand, Orrin could see value in sitting down to a meal in the company of others. Tradition was important to a blacksmith, like the tradition of not burning your hands on hot metal. He loved that tradition. But social behavior was … confusing. Hidden meanings, yet obvious intent; why didn't everyone simply state what they wanted?

Still, Orrin loved feasts. Feasts in the Cause of Thanks were particularly good placeholders for his work. Piles of meat required high quality blades; liquid portions necessitated perfectly concave surfaces for lifting and drinking. Apparently, imbibing directly from the bowl itself was frowned upon – for unknown reasons. Civilization confused him in many cases. But the benefit to working so closely with people once more was that he had a ready-made audience, prepared to observe and appreciate his workmanship. Which brought his attention back to the Place of Feasts – and his work thereupon.

Weapons glittered on the table, instruments of death in the hands of the right person. A knife, serrated edge wavering through sight, held a humble position. Beside it rested a smaller implement, rounded business edge flat and smooth. On the far side of flat meat display, another tool of harm revealed its presence, multi-tined tips arcing in graceful curves from the haft, small enough to be concealed in a single hand.

Certainly some _could_ call them 'utensils' … but when did a common fork possess enough fortitude to puncture the average kite-shield? Only _his._

Near the center of the table rested another, larger weapon. This tool couldn't be so easily disguised, its blade spread over two hand spans long, a simple wooden handle worn by time and frequent use. As feasts required models, the appropriate demonstration materials lay on another flat display piece, shredded meat lying in perfectly carved piles.

Orrin nodded approvingly. If one were feast properly, the flatware needed a suitable display. But … some people didn't really appreciate a well-cast set. Or appreciated it too much. Like a certain yordle across the hall, wielding a weapon sublime in its creation, a thing of beauty, and something he'd be overjoyed to call his own creation. Sadly, neither was it his, nor did its current owner seem to fully comprehend the magnificence of what she bore.

Leaning to one side, he elbowed a fellow Champion. "Is she … all there?"

Garen, filling his display plate with more of the perfectly carved meat looked up. "Who, Poppy?"

Orrin grunted. "Aye, the yordle holding that exquisite bit of workmanship."

The plate slid into place between the wickedly sharp fork and steak knife. "Ah. We've … wondered. Everything she's done checks out, especially when compared to some of the _others_."

Orrin changed his focus, to the large man even bigger than he, currently not holding the famed Masterwork for which he'd gained much renown. "And he?"

"Braum?" Garen swallowed a large mouthful. It made a gratified feeling arise in the blacksmith, that the large warrior from Demacia would help create a need for more displays. The more food needed for display, the greater the need for his craftsmanship, and thus more metalwork. "He's … different. In a good way. He talks big, and carries through every time. The stories I've heard …" the Demacian nobleman shook his head slowly. "If it were anyone else, I'd laugh. But with him? It's possible."

The minotaur's eyes focused on the blunt-force trauma device, resting at the yordle's side. "And her hammer, she honestly does not know to whom it belongs?"

Garen snorted. "The only one that doubts she deserves it is her. Possibly … Braum as well? … But it's more a case of he believes her, I think."

"Ah." Orrin reached for an ale, downing the fluid in a single, long draught.

A harsh voice came into hearing range. "Are those boneheads doing it _again_? How many times do we have to go through this? I mean, like, they went to the river country last _month!_ They're driving me _crazy!_ "

Orrin kept his eyes on the wondrous bit of workmanship. "Jinx. Break my display and I will ensure you need a new gun."

Panicked hissing broke out behind him. "No no no, don't worry babies! Mommy won't let the nasty new guy hurt you!"

Orrin sighed again. Perhaps he too, should begin designing a new Warhammer? Something simple, but efficient, minimal ornamentation … until the time was right, of course. Then a weapon that would make the very gods gasp in envy!

Across the display hall – _dining room_ other people called it – Braum smashed a ham-sized fist into the table, sending nearby platters on miniature hops at the impact. His booming voice carried throughout the entirety of the room. "Then go there we shall! If your hero is near the mountains, we shall find him!"

The small yordle twitched to her feet, head barely reaching Braum's knee, and clearly inspired by the larger man. The hammer – perfectly balanced – toppled over to rest its pommel above her shoulder. Her tiny hand grasped a thin point on the haft, one of multiple segments that appeared perfectly designed for a smaller wielder of great weapons. Her mouth moved, inaudible at that range, but the fist she made, punching her breastplate, made intentions clear.

Braum stretched out a long arm, seizing his shield from seemingly nowhere. "Truer words were never said little champion. Let us go!"

Orrin noticed a grinning figure, clad in trench coat and large hat, flash a mouthful of teeth before collecting handfuls of gold from his neighbors. One of them, the Frejlordian warlord Sejuani began repeatedly smashing her head into the table. The helmet she normally wore sat beside her, empty guards staring blindly at the room.

Something niggled at the back of his mind, the subtleties of social interaction. He stared at the woman, then glanced back at the over-sized hero leaving the tavern with the little yordle. A wide grin split his face as realization struck; fighting down the laughter, took effort.

"What?" Garen gave him a puzzled look. Behind him, Jinx poked her head a little closer, a protective hand held over the long guns in her arms.

Orrin silently pounded his fist on his thigh, attempting to regain control. After a moment's exercise in self-control, he finally gave the warrior his attention. "Sejuani, is flirting with Braum. Ha!"

Garen blinked in disbelief. "You're kidding, right? _Sejuani?"_

"Ach," Orrin seized a pitcher, carefully lifting it over the flatware display. "Look at her helmet. Don't tell me she could not get it repaired, not with all the resources afforded to Champions. Not with _me_ here."

"Yeah, so?" Jinx sidled around Garen, carefully placing his bulk between herself and Orrin.

"Look at Barum's shield." Orrin felt laughter bubble up once more. "The broken horn? Her broken horn? It is imitation, a symbol of 'what you are, I am as well.' She couldn't get more blatant if she pushed him into a church and gave him a ring. And he _still_ went off with Poppy!"

Garen and Jinx stared at him. He ignored their looks, and quaffed another pint. Perhaps holidays were not so strange after all? He was certainly enjoying himself.

* * *

 **A/N: Short, but fun. Happy Thanksgiving!**


	14. Scout's Code

His creations awaited. Evil, pure evil, hidden within the form of purity. Who would expect such a thing? _How_ could anyone suspect? Subtlety killed more foes than blunt aggressiveness, in any conflict in Runeterra. No it wasn't _swords_ or _spears_ ; even magic, powerful as it was, that killed in war. Simple disease did the job. Infections that no one saw, infiltrating the body before anyone could mount a defense, _subtlety_ beyond even his own formidable skills.

The army obeyed his every gesture, following the Command Scone with dark eyes. He'd modeled the basic design after their preferred prey, and induced neuro-enhancing qualities through a breakthrough project. Multiple casualties had been incurred through its creation, as all proper science required – what was the point of designing contagions for world domination without a few bodies?

One thing that needed to change: the name. _Scone_ felt too undignified; something an obsessed, megalomaniacal moron would create. Not a scientist of highest intellect.

The former doctor known as Singed flicked a command, throwing his will behind the subvocalized order. As one, his creations turned in place, and began marching for the surface.

Hoarse laughter, coming from lungs damaged by too many years exposure, followed them. Their orders were simple: rampage. Pillage. Bite and maul anyone, once the Final Command was given.

Today was a Red Day on his calendar.

* * *

Teemo, the small Yordle of light tan fur relaxed. Shade, generously provided by an unsuspecting war-boar, kept the direct sunlight off his hiding place. Its endothermic properties even chilled a drink, a glorious convenience. So long as he did not move, the camouflage would not fail. All he had to do was keep an eye out for hextech spy devices, and area-affect issues, and the world would be a happy place.

A tiny mushroom, green and purple, caught his attention. Deftly, he caught-up the fungus, stashing it within his pouch. Basic movement didn't disrupt the concealing properties of his garb; and dense shrubbery could boost the charging function in limited areas. But the secret to success was how it was used.

Underneath his feet, the ground trembled.

Teemo frowned. The war-boar hadn't moved, and none of the larger Champions had approached. What made the earth shake?

Abruptly, the massive quadruped providing his shade moved. Sejuani, the beast's master, leapt into its saddle.

His blowgun, carved out of _Ilambuco_ wood, appeared. Toxin-darts, harvested from the unspeakable horrors dwelling beneath the Arena, matched the wielding speed. What was that noise?

A crack in the wall rumbled. Teemo scanned its opening, flicking the freshly-harvested fungus into place, just as insurance. Only a Yordle could access the smallest openings in the actual Arena, but other things liked to creep. Poisonous snakes, arthropodic things that loved to sneak and trap, slug-like monstrosities that moved like drunken beasts yet appeared without warning – dangers existed beyond the norm.

Just beyond the mushroom, a tiny purple figure appeared. Googly eyes bulged over a wide mouth, a pulsating red tongue dangling at hungry angles.

Teemo did not move, decades of training the only thing keeping his reflexes tamped down. The small, purple beast stalked forwards, contemptuously dodging the mushroom. As it walked, the grass began to turn brown, drooping to the ground. A nearby avian took flight, its tail feathers shifting color from a vibrant purple to a pale shadow of its former, brilliant hue. Teemo's eyes widened – the _Raishan_ bird species was known for resilience to almost every toxic substance known to mankind. And Yordlekind. And Whateverkinds there ever were out there. Entire carboys of chloride-based poisons had been dropped into _Raishan_ nests, only to fail.

Glowing eyes followed the first pair, more of the purple-fringed horrors popping into sight.

"Enough of this _spoor!_ " Sejuani burst out overhead. "Bristles! Attack!"

Teemo raised a hand. "No – wait!"

The oversized beast and its rider ignored, or failed to hear him. Stealth held its own drawbacks after all, it appeared. As one, the pair charged into the upcoming rush. Their capacity to move together, synergistic motion that melded together was awe-inspiring. Teemo believed their cooperative nature could be taught to professional riding schools for immense fees, had they any such inclination.

He could only watch as the massive animal trampled over the purple creatures, kicking some into the retaining walls, flattening others into fuzzy pancakes. Whistling cracks, the noise of Sejuani's ice-whip in action, blurred still more of the little purple things out of sight. Faint screams emanating from the sky suggested their probable direction. Yet the small creatures persevered, leaping to bite at the boar's flanks, nipping at any part of Sejuani they could reach.

Sighing, Teemo waited. It only took minutes before the massive duo began to suffer ill-effects. First, the True Ice of Sejuani's bola began to ting an unfamiliar hue, soon followed by a gradual lightening in the war-boar's fur. Instead of a deep blue, perfect for the ice and snow of the Frejlord lands, it began to adopt a brighter coloration, far less – impressive.

"No! Get them!" The champion's voice shrieked a new command as realization began to sink in.

The war-boar bellowed in protest, redoubling its efforts. Terrifying displays of brute force tossed more of the little monsters skyward, but the shift continued.

Fascinated, Teemo watched. Every motion made by the duo flung more of the growing, purple flood like pieces of a game. Yet the falling rabble caused the vegetation to darken upon impact, killing the shrubbery at each point. The bushes he hid within were becoming brittle as well – his camouflage remained intact, but the beneficial attributes of his hiding place were becoming rapidly reduced with each second. On top of which, the duo were attaining – with equal rapidity – a vibrant pink.

He couldn't help it.

He giggled.

Instantly, dozens of tiny faces turned his way. The irate mine of one Frejlordian Chiefteness and her hirsute mount turned murderous. It felt somewhat akin to how _kreftian_ bull-hounds acted, when confronted with a particularly tasty specimen. Teemo gulped, mentally flipping through his memorized _Yordle Scouting Handbook._

While nothing outlined what to do in case of a Pink War-Boar attack, or a Purple People Eater Invasion, there was a sub-clause pertaining to overwhelming odds.

Run.

Tiny boots made no sound on the soft ground, and leaves left only the faintest of crackles as Teemo ran. A brief boost propelled his passage between shrubs, allowing the protective colorations to resume nigh-instantly. That one, brief, glimpse was more than enough to spur the entire horde after him. This meant: trouble.

* * *

The mad doctor followed his creations. Their incessant demands for treats, finally turned into a productive bent, urged them onward, upward, evilward!

"Go! Go my beauties!" his cackling cry spurred the former-poros into greater efforts. "Make the Whole World Unclean! Eh?"

The light of clear blue sky opened overhead, just as planned. The multitude of ghastly minions poured forth, destroying the very vegetation with their presence, also as planned. What did _not_ proceed according to plan was how the walls hemmed one in; where were the towns to ravage? The population centers to infect? He had lists, charts, thousands of statistics all pointing to massive pandemics after a brief introduction period of a mere week! How could he do that if there were walls in the way?

A brief image came to him, an unknown figure of pink and blue, smashing its way through his minions. They flew from its path, smacking into walls so hard their special coating flung off. Entire months of labor sleeted to the ground before his eyes, wasted to the instant-renewal properties of the Arena.

"NO!" he howled. "Not again! Stop it!"

He gave a bone-shivering cry, and began running, desperate to stop the rampage. If the infections concoction wore off the chosen vector, the Arena would be able to reverse any changes, nullifying his work. So much work, literally washed down the drain.

* * *

Teemo managed to re-integrate himself to the shadows, hiding as the horde of little monsters pelted past. It was terrifying, how such cuteness could be so deadly. Perhaps others had a point when they feared him?

After a moment's thought, he shook his head. No, there was nothing terrifying about a happy yordle. What was life without cuteness?

A hot pink war-boar, carrying an equally colorful Sejuani rumbled past, each footstep pounding the ground. Apparently, the duo believed _he_ responsible for the debacle? But he'd sworn to never use paint-infused mushrooms ever again, after the Paint-Boom Games of '03. Did they assume he could go back on his word?

Making matters stranger, a man in dark blue ran past, wailing into a gas mask about his – _precioussssss?_ What was … on second thought, that could wait. All that really was needed was to sit and wait. The Code stipulated that much, at least. _If surrounded by enemies, and prevented from moving, trust your instincts. Don't move, trust the cloak._

Teemo sat down, watching the odd-looking parade snake its way around the Terror-bird den. Well, it was more of a Terrified-Bird Den now. But he was fine. He'd never underestimate the Power of the Scout's Code.

* * *

 **A/N: Shorter than hoped, but still over 1k words. Also, far more insane than I'd imagined when I sat down ...**  
 **My humble apologies to Justonemorenerd, Creaturemaster and all of you expecting a chapter far earlier than now. See profile for details :/**


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